


the hand, the heart

by ADreamingSongbird



Series: if we want to, we could do what kings do [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst and Romance, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Political Intrigue, Slow Burn, TRFLverse, Vicchan Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-05-08 02:25:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14684493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADreamingSongbird/pseuds/ADreamingSongbird
Summary: The war is over. The Crown Prince is a trophy, residing in his gilded cage - the roses climbing its walls are beautiful, but their thorns are sharp, and their vines threaten to wrap around his neck and strangle him, until he is nothing more than a dead, golden puppet.Or: Viktor Nikiforov is sent to be a ward of the Katsukis, Hinomoto's Royal Family, as part of the stipulations of the treaty that ended the war between their countries.The catch?He might be a stunning rose, but he, too, has his thorns, and they cut deep.(AU based on the setting ofThe Rules For Lovers. Stands alone!)





	1. if i should take a chance

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO HELLO!!! when I saw a YOI Royalty Week on Tumblr I got very, very excited, because I've been missing TRFLverse a lot lately! But I didn't want to just do side stories, because I can do those anytime, yknow? So hey, here's a full-fledged standalone story, based on some "what-ifs" and "could-haves" way back in the plotting of the original TRFL. This story is a standalone, but the worldbuilding is mostly the same, so for anyone who hasn't read TRFL, go right ahead! I've been referring to this story as minitrfl in my head. It's a good way to get into the TRFLverse if you're interested!! :D
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

[Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fPp3Qh-GRqs) swirls around the ballroom, swells and strains of a waltz trembling in the air until there’s almost no room left to hear one’s own thoughts. Viktor doesn’t understand how the orchestra in the corner can stand it, playing with all this magically amplified sound, but then again, perhaps they similarly decrease its volume for them. Surely, otherwise, serenading a ball would hurt.

Almost as much as attending one.

The mask on his face hides his identity, and even if it didn’t he’s been trained far too well to display his dismay on his face—he’s Ruthenia’s charming ice prince, after all. Always ready with a firebrand wit and a cold comment. He’s the perfect prince; a darling when he wants to be loved, and a dagger when he needs to be sharp. He’s the perfect prince.

He’s the perfect prince, and that’s why his mother is okay with giving him away.

“Hello, stranger,” a familiar voice says, sliding up behind him, and he turns to see Christophe’s curly hair poking out over his mask—he’s dressed in resplendent purple and blue, with a shimmering mask to match, while Viktor wears the silvery-white of a swan. “Why aren’t you enjoying the dance?”

“You know exactly why,” Viktor mutters darkly. One of these revelers, somewhere out in the crowd, is Crown Princess Mari Katsuki. Somewhere else in the crowd, another one, is Second Prince Yuuri Katsuki. Their parents, the King and Queen, are in attendance as well, but like his mother, the monarchs don’t have masks, sitting together at a high table instead. He can’t be caught glaring at them, so he has to settle for thinking dour thoughts toward every Hinomotan delegate he sees.

“I would have thought you’d be enjoying your last party as a full Nikiforov,” Christophe says thoughtfully. “Although since we’re hiding, I suppose you aren’t technically a full Nikiforov now, either.”

“Mask or no mask, I am who I am,” Viktor reminds him frostily, voice taut. “Not even the Katsukis will take that from me.”

Christophe is quiet—it’s one of his thoughtful silences, the short-yet-interminably-long ones, where somehow he understands far more than he’s been told—for just a moment. “Hmm… That remains to be seen.”

Viktor hates that he’s right.

The walls close in, slowly but surely, as the music flows like a rising tide, or perhaps a whirlpool, slowly but surely forcing him to the center of the room, where all the dancing couples swirl about the floor. He watches as Chris leaves his side after a few moments of silence, watches as Chris takes someone with an elegant fiery-red mask out to the dance floor, watches as they join the sea of revelers.

Everyone here is so happy about the treaty.

Everyone here, but him.

And oh, he knows why he’s being sent off. He understands all too well that it’s his duty, not that his mother doesn’t love him. It’s either him or Yura, and he’s far more valuable, not to mention mature. Yura is still a child. He’d make sense to send away as insurance, but Viktor feels a little sick at the thought of being jealous, of wishing their places were switched; if one of them has to be shipped away to a foreign court, to be a ward of the Hinomotan royal family, to be a symbol of the treaty and Ruthenia’s conditional surrender… it should be him. Not little Yura. Him.

He feels nauseous.

“A swan,” a voice says, near his shoulder, and he turns sharply. There’s another masked figure there, one he doesn’t recognize, with a gold-and-green mask stylized after sunflowers, and elegant Hinomotan robes to match. He must be from Hinomoto’s court, then, and almost on principle Viktor wants to turn away and shun him. But that would be immature and contrary to the treaty that was just signed, and he needs to swallow his pride and act in the interests of his country and his mother’s decree, so…

He pastes on a smile and nods. “Yes.”

“I like how you did your hair,” the sunflower noble says, gesturing above his head to imitate the elaborately styled braids and plumes that comprise Viktor’s updo, set with white feathers and gemstones to accentuate his costume. “It matches very well.”

Viktor inclines his head just enough to be gracious, not enough to be overly-deferent, and says, “Thank you. Your mask is creative—are you a flower fairy?”

The sunflower noble laughs softly. “Ah… something like that, yes. Truth be told, I had no idea what to do for the masquerade, and the first thing I saw when I looked around for inspiration was a sunflower, so… here I am.”

That’s a little incongruous to how much thought Viktor put into the symbolism of his costume, though he’s anonymous under his mask. He’s Ruthenia’s swan prince, and this is his swan song. He has to leave home to move to Hasetsu to live as a ward of the royal family whose army killed his tutor, his _friend,_ on the battlefield. He’s about as excited about it as he would be about marching to his own execution.

“Well,” he says, keeping his tone light, “you certainly could have fooled me. It looks very intricate and well-planned!”

The sunflower noble seems bashful, now, sipping his champagne and looking down at his feet. “You flatter me, Sir Swan. I’m sure the amount of glitter I’m wearing must have just dazzled you too much to see me clearly.”

This must be a lower-ranking courtier, Viktor supposes, sipping his own champagne. None of the higher-ranked ones would have dared to suggest that their company might be incorrect about the compliments he gives, not when everyone is anonymous and that company could be royalty.

It’s almost cute, actually, being around someone who doesn’t walk on the fine tightrope of courtly life. Someone who must not be so used to it. Maybe Viktor can ignore it himself, just for tonight, and if tomorrow his mother hears about a swan being improper, he can blame it on the alcohol.

The petty side of him _wants_ to be improper and cause a scene, he realizes. Hell, he could even do it by ruining Sunflower’s night, here, by coldly asking how dare he suggest that Viktor’s sight is impaired or that his judgment is invalid. Maybe he can turn that little bashful laugh into—

God, what is _wrong_ with him? Surely he’s not so upset and resentful that he wants to go around pointing out simple mistakes made with good intentions and making complete strangers cry!

“Oh, no,” he says, instead, swallowing because he feels even more nauseous now that he’s caught himself thinking like that. “I assure you, you do look delightful. But come! Appearances are hardly the most important part of the night. Have you been enjoying the party, Sir Sunflower?”

The sunflower noble absolutely lights up, nodding. He drains his champagne flute, sets it aside on the table nearest them, and glances out over the floor. “I’ve been dancing, mostly. I… thought I would hide up here to take a break and catch my breath, when I saw you. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“No, not particularly,” Viktor assures him absently. It was just him alone, stewing in unpleasant thoughts and his own resentment, something he’s sure would catch his mother’s attention if he did it for long. He has to at least act like he doesn’t hate every second of this. It’s hard on her, too, he knows—sending away her successor, her right hand, her child. He can’t throw tantrums and make it even harder for her. That would be both immature and ridiculous. He’s better than that.

“I’m glad, then,” Sunflower says, sounding relieved. “Have you been enjoying the night, Sir Swan?”

Viktor hesitates, caught between the urge to lie and the desire to be pathetically honest. What comes out is a humorless chuckle as he sips his champagne again. “Ah… I think I’ve been a bit of a recluse, I’m afraid.”

Sunflower recoils at that, surprisingly. “Is it because of… tensions?” he asks, looking away. “I—we _are_ at peace now, but I understand if you would rather not speak with someone from my land right now, if… if it is still too near, or…”

“It’s not because I would rather avoid Hinomotans,” Viktor assures, biting the inside of his cheek because of how close to a lie that is. He _could_ lie, but he still feels pathetic and he doesn’t _want_ to. What he wants is to go home. “I… suppose I’m just not much for approaching strangers tonight. I’m a little easily frightened, perhaps.”

Sunflower looks up. “Oh! I—I’m like that, normally, too! It’s why I had to drink a bit before I could ask anyone to dance. I know drinking to be confident is probably not how I should be doing things, but it _does_ help me stop hiding in the corner all the time—wait! Not that I mean hiding in the corner is a bad thing!”

Viktor laughs. He can’t quite help it—it’s a little silly and a little charming, the way Sunflower keeps putting his foot in his mouth. “Don’t worry. I understand what you meant.”

“Oh, good,” Sunflower says, relieved.

A silence looms over them, threatens to crash over them like a breaking wave. Viktor knows plenty of ways to steer conversations, to smoothly interject with just the right thing and keep people laughing and merry, to seem ever-so-charming and oh-so-perfect—if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s being perfect—and yet… he doesn’t.

He lets the silence fall, lets the air between them have the chance to grow stilted and awkward. He’s curious, he has to admit; what will Sunflower do? Will he walk away? Will he attempt to strike up a conversation again? Will he just wait, and wait, and wait, and let the silence draw out into a mess of awkward, inorganic expectation between the two of them?

Instead of putting his foot in his mouth again, Sunflower just looks out over the dance floor and breathes out a soft sigh. “It’s beautiful.”

Viktor nods listlessly. All he can see is masks and intentions hidden behind silk and gossamer, whirling together to celebrate his last day as a Nikiforov. “I suppose.”

Sunflower sighs again, almost wistful. “I wish I wasn’t so scared of it.”

Now _that’s_ surprising. Viktor glances at him, curious, and wonders if his hair has given away who he is by now. The Nikiforovs are known for their family’s silver hair, but then again, plenty of people have colored their hair for the masquerade, to fully match their costumes. There isn’t really a subtle way to ask either, unless he were to say _by the way, I’m not a Nikiforov,_ which would still be rather suspicious. Still, he wonders if his identity has anything to do with Sunflower’s fear.

“Why is that?” he asks, careful to keep his tone light. Sunflower reminds him of a skittish puppy: eager to please, happy to chase butterflies, but easily spooked.

“There’s so many people.” Sunflower hesitates. “I don’t do well with big crowds. I always worry they’re all staring and judging me, and that I’m going to mess up and make everyone hate me—like right now, I’m just babbling at you, right? It’s because I drank enough champagne not to hide but I kind of regret it because now I’m probably annoying you, and I don’t know, maybe I should just go?”

“You’re not annoying.” Viktor leans against the banister and looks out over the crowd. “I appreciate the company, frankly. It’s a little refreshing to be with someone who has no expectations of me.”

“Oh,” Sunflower breathes. “I… well, I’m glad?”

“Plus,” Viktor adds, “I doubt we’ll ever see each other again after tonight, right? So there’s no harm to be done.”

Sunflower blinks at him behind his mask. “Oh,” he says again, biting his lip. “I… I guess you’re right, yeah. That does take some of the pressure off… at least if I’m a disaster, nobody knows it’s _me_ that was the disaster, right?”

“Exactly,” Viktor agrees. There’s a bitter little taste in the back of his mouth—does Sunflower accord him the same courtesy? Or does he know who he is? He doesn’t know, and that lack of knowledge makes him feel disadvantaged and helpless. Part of him wants to act unprincely—to take his supposed anonymity and do everything he can’t as Crown Prince Viktor Nikiforov, to cause a scene and be loud and obtrusive and stupid. Nobody would have to know it was him, and even if they did, they couldn’t say anything, because there would be no proof. Why not!

He’s grieving. He’s upset. He’s hurting. Why can’t he be a disaster, too?

“Pardon me if I’m overstepping my bounds,” Sunflower says softly, hesitating, “but you seem… lost in thought. Is it because of, um… the treaty, or is it something else, or…?”

“My tutor and good friend was killed in the battle last month,” Viktor answers stiffly, just barely biting off _by your people._ They’re past the war. They have to be. The Prince has to be.

Is he the Prince?

“Oh,” Sunflower whispers, as if the breath was just knocked from his lungs. “I—I’m sorry. I’m very sorry for your loss. I… are you sure you wouldn’t rather I leave you alone? I don’t… I don’t want to make things more difficult, or… or…”

Fuck the Prince.

Viktor turns around and grabs his hand.

“I’ve made up my mind,” he says, swallowing the bitterness like a pill. If today is his last day of freedom, he’s going to enjoy it, courtesy and princeliness be damned to hell. “Sir Sunflower, will you dance with me?”

Sunflower stares up at him with eyes wide behind his mask, stunned silent it seems, but then he nods and starts to smile again. “I—yes, of course. It would be my honor, Sir Swan.”

He leads Sunflower out of the balcony, down the steps, and to the dance floor, then draws him close as the next waltz starts to play. He can feel Sunflower’s body pressed against his, and though he’s wearing elbow-length gloves, he can still feel the warmth of Sunflower’s hand in his. Sunflower is staring over his shoulder, with proper technique as dictated by formal dance convention, but Viktor has to wonder if he’s blushing.

He sweeps forward, effortlessly weaving into the crowd of swirling dancers, and Sunflower follows him like his own shadow, flowing from step to step with grace and ease. He’s a good dancer, it would seem—Viktor appreciates that. He hates dancing with people who don’t know what they’re doing, or who clearly paid no attention in their ballroom lessons. Sunflower is a good follower, keeping his grip firm and his arms in proper positions—he might as well be from an instructional video, his technique is so flawless.

They twirl through a double reverse spin, and Sunflower’s green-and-gold robes flare out around him. Viktor smiles at the sight before having to duck out of the way of someone’s elbow and Sunflower giggles breathlessly.

It’s like he’s been struck by a hammer. Viktor nearly trips over his own two feet.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, feeling his heart race, feeling Sunflower’s heart race, chest-to-chest. _Oh, he’s lovely._

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs—it slips out, a whisper of a thought echoing in his mind, and Sunflower stumbles, for the first time tonight.

“I—please, you can’t even see my face,” he protests, looking down bashfully. Viktor suddenly wants to tip his chin up and kiss him, wants to see him without that mask because he _must_ be beautiful, wants to see him tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. He’s going to Hinomoto—maybe he _can?_ Maybe they can be friends, after tonight, and…

He’s getting ahead of himself.

He just squeezes Sunflower’s hand as he leads him into a link and promenade walk. “I don’t have to see your face to know.”

“Oh,” Sunflower whispers, more to himself than anything, and Viktor smiles. “Thank you.”

They dance and dance and dance, pausing here and there to rest and to drink water or champagne or fruity cocktails from the refreshment bar, and Viktor pointedly ignores Chris and Yura and his mother. Tonight is his night, and they can’t have it. Tonight, he’s just Viktor. Not His Highness, not a prince, not a bird being stuffed into a cage. Just Viktor.

They get plenty of looks from other partygoers, both Ruthenian and Hinomotan. There are other nobles like them, mingling with their former enemies, but most stick to their own cliques, avoiding the strangers, and to see a pair like them, laughing and joking and acting as though the war didn’t just take so much from them, must be strange.

Viktor understands that. If he was a prince, he might still want to be furious, want to resent Sunflower for being from the country that took Yakov from him. But Yakov was the Crown Prince’s tutor, and he’s just Viktor the swan, and therefore that wound is distant and can’t hurt him. Maybe abandoning nobility would help everyone here get along better, and wouldn’t _that_ be a funny thought.

So when he catches Yura giving him the dirtiest look of betrayal from behind his tiger mask, he just smiles and turns away, because he doesn’t care. Yura is a prince, who can worry about princely things. He’s not like Yura. Not tonight.

Instead, he wraps his arm around Sunflower’s shoulders and pulls him close as they walk to one of the alcoves with private seating, and Sunflower laughs that beautiful laugh again and leans into him. “Wow,” he sighs, nestling his head against Viktor’s shoulder once they’re seated. “I probably shouldn’t drink any more tonight. I’m getting a little sleepy. How about you?”

“Me too,” Viktor admits. “But I’ve never been good at staying up late, whether there’s alcohol involved or not.”

Sunflower pulls away, eyes narrowed but dancing with mirth. “Don’t tell me you’re a morning person, Sir Swan.”

“Oh, is that a deal-breaker?” Viktor puts his hands on his hips, mirroring his suspicion. “Are you a night owl, Sir Sunflower?”

“Alas,” Sunflower sighs, casting a hand to his forehead. “Fate has conspired against us, Sir Swan. We simply cannot be friends like this.”

The breath catches in Viktor’s throat, because Sunflower is right here, pressed against his side, and he’s so beautiful, and he’s done what Viktor thought would be impossible tonight and made him _laugh,_ made him enjoy himself, and…

“That’s truly tragic,” he murmurs, and he’s leaning in before his mind can catch up to his impulses and scream at him to stop, and then his lips are pressed to Sunflower’s, their masks bumping together.

Sunflower’s lips are soft but slightly chapped under his lip gloss, and he tastes a little like candy and a little like alcohol. Viktor could kiss him for an eternity and—

Sunflower jerks back, his eyes wide.

 _Oh,_ Viktor thinks, and then, _Fuck._

“Sorry,” he says, pulling away, heart in his throat. He just messed up. He just messed everything up. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have. I…”

“We—we can’t,” Sunflower squeaks, and his eyes are big and shiny behind his mask and oh god, did Viktor just make him cry, fuck, oh god, fuck, and yet…

And yet, his heart aches and his soul yearns to cry out, _why not?_

“I’m sorry,” he says again, staring down into his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“I… I think I should go,” Sunflower whispers, and Viktor’s head snaps up.

“Wait,” he begs. “Wait, please, no—”

“I’m sorry.” Sunflower gives him a last, distraught look, pulling away, and he stands up, inching toward the heavy curtain leading back to the main ballroom. He hesitates, but before Viktor can catch his wrist and beg him to reconsider, to talk it out, to just _stay,_ he slips away like sand through his fingers.

By the time Viktor gets his feet under him, pushes aside the curtains, and desperately looks for him in the crowd, he’s gone.

* * *

 

Viktor finds himself still thinking about Sunflower in the morning.

Everything is packed—everything has been packed for weeks, since the peace talks introduced the idea of sending him away—and his suite of guest rooms is devoid of everything that might have ever identified it as his. All his things will be shipped directly from Ruthenia to Hasetsu Palace, so there’s no need for him to even go home on the way. He’s going from Elvetia to Hinomoto.

His mother and Yura and the rest of their court are all going home.

He’s not.

In this moment, he resents Hinomoto so much he can taste bitter hatred in the back of his mouth, rising like bile and threatening to choke him until he goes to the bathroom and stands there, breathing hard, wondering if he’s going to throw up. After a minute or two, the revulsion hasn’t lessened but the nausea retreats a little, and he decides he isn’t going to, so he retreats to the sitting room and collapses into a couch, head in his hands.

Tears prick at his eyes. He misses Yakov. He misses Yakov and his stupid, gruff complaints and his barks of laughter and the resigned fondness in every shake of his head every time Viktor did something he considered ridiculous. The funeral was two weeks ago. It still hasn’t sunk in.

It’s not fair. Hinomoto took Yakov. Hinomoto is taking his family and his home. And on top of it all, Hinomoto took Sunflower, too. Sunflower, the one potentially good thing about going there, gone.

He _hates_ Hinomoto. He hates their stupid royal family and their stupid palace and everything about them. The Katsukis can go fuck themselves—they’ll be keeping him as a glorified hostage, to keep Ruthenia in check after the war—fuck them, for agreeing to do this. Fuck them for wanting this! Fuck all of this!

Makkachin jumps onto the sofa and pads into his lap, her paws pressing into his thighs hard enough to hurt from her weight as she whines and licks at his cheeks.

Oh. Is he crying?

“I’m fine,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around her. “I’m fine, Makka. It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

Makkachin licks his ear and whines again, wriggling in his arms and placing a paw on his shoulder. Her ears flick as he chokes on a sob he tries to swallow and ends up coughing, miserable and stupid, and then she pokes her cold nose into his forehead.

“I’m not fine,” Viktor wheezes, squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in her fur. “Oh, god, Makka, Makka, I’m not fine!”

One of the best things about Makkachin is that she’s a very good listener and she’s never, ever, judgmental. She sits there and gives Viktor puppy kisses as he cries himself out in her side, sniffling and sobbing and gross and messy, and when he’s done, feeling hollow and empty, she follows him to the bathroom and winds between his legs to press herself close to him as he washes his face and blows his nose.

When he finishes, he stares at the prince in the mirror—long hair, styled in a braided updo around his head. Sore, reddened blue eyes, the same color as his mother’s. Pale skin, flushed pink from hot water. A richly embroidered floral suit and a silky waistcoat, befitting a prince.

God, he feels like such a mess.

“What a disaster,” he mutters, lips pressing together in distaste. It’s for the best that Sunflower ran from him. Maybe he could tell that Viktor has far too many issues to be worth being around. He’s grieving and he’s a wreck and his own family is getting rid of him. They probably won’t even want him back when this is done—they’ll think they do, but then they’ll realize how nice everything is when he’s gone and they don’t have to see him, because fuck, he spent so long being the perfect prince but he’s _not._ He’s a mess and a disaster and a wreck and so, so far from perfect, and…

Makkachin sits on his foot and wags her tail, tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth.

Viktor melts, squatting down to kiss the top of her head, and laughs softly. “Oh, Makkachin. You won’t get rid of me, too, will you? You’ll stay? You’re such a good girl. I could never doubt you, what am I saying! Of course you’ll stay. You’re a good girl. The best girl.”

Makkachin wags her tail harder at the praise, and Viktor ruffles her ears before he stands up again. It’s getting close to time to leave. He should pat his face down with cool water so it stops being blotchy from crying, and he should put on makeup and the smile of a perfect prince. It’s a fragile, porcelain façade, but he’s the only one who can see the cracks.

“Come on, Makkachin,” he urges, a real smile (not the prince’s) playing about his lips as she refuses to get off his feet. “I have to get my makeup bag. Don’t make me drop you!”

Makkachin’s tail thumps against his leg, and he laughs.

“Makkachiiiin…”

When he wiggles his toes in his shoes threateningly, she gets the hint and stands up, pacing in a circle with a huff. Viktor laughs at her, pets her head, and heads back to his luggage in the sitting room, pulling his makeup bag and brushes from the top of the suitcase before walking back to the bathroom. Makkachin follows him contentedly, pausing to sneeze by the couch.

He takes his time to contour his face, highlighting his cheekbones with just a touch of glitter, and draws on delicately winged eyeliner before doing his mascara. He’ll add lip gloss, too, but not yet—after that kind of embarrassing breakdown, he wants some tea to calm down.

It takes a quick heating charm to get a cup of boiling water, and he peruses the collection of teas Elvetia’s palace staff was kind enough to leave in a cabinet for him, eventually deciding on some vanilla black. Fragrant steam wafts up as he sets it to steep and sighs, running his fingers through Makkachin’s fur again.

“What are we doing, Makkachin?” he sighs. “We don’t belong in Hinomoto.”

Makkachin grunts.

“I know.” Viktor sighs again. “We’re glorified hostages that have to be polite. I know. We’ll live, but… well, I guess it doesn’t matter if we like it or not, right? Or at least it doesn’t matter if I like it. You, I hope, will like it. And if you don’t, I’ll throw a fit until they fix it for you. You deserve the best.”

Makkachin licks his fingers, so he takes that to mean she agrees with the sentiment. He smiles down at her, picks up his tea, and—

_Knock, knock, knock._

Blinking, Viktor glances at his phone (no new messages from anyone he cares for), then back to Makkachin, and finally to the door. He opens it, princely and smiling, to see…

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Lord Dmitri Petrov says, bowing slightly. “May I have a word?”

Disguising his confusion (Petrov isn’t exactly known for being a staunch ally of the Nikiforovs in court), Viktor steps back smoothly and gestures to the sitting room sofas. “By all means, my lord.”

“Thank you. You are too kind.” Petrov offers him a smile as he passes, taking a seat on the edge of one of the armchairs. Viktor closes the door and follows, gracefully sitting on a sofa, and Makkachin hops up next to him, circles, and lays down, head on his thigh.

Viktor lays his free hand on her head, blows on his tea, and tilts his head just so. “So. What brings you to see me this morning, Lord Petrov?”

Petrov’s smile turns sympathetic as he looks around, eyes falling on the suitcase and bag near the door. Viktor keeps his face schooled into something calm and polite, but internally he shifts to the defensive; he doesn’t want this man’s pity!

“It must be hard,” Petrov says softly. “Having to go so far from home to serve our Ruthenia. You are strong, Your Highness, very strong. I don’t know that I could do this, were I in your place.”

Viktor bites back a scathing retort about not having a _choice,_ swallowing his bitterness and instead offering a demure, “It’s my duty, my lord. I do what the Crown and Ruthenia need me to.”

“Still,” Petrov says. “You are strong and noble. A lesser man would refuse on principle, especially after the Hinomotans killed someone so close to him—”

The funeral flashes to the forefront of his mind’s eye. Viktor stiffens.

“—ah,” Petrov says, wincing. “My apologies, Your Highness. That wound is, perhaps, still too fresh.”

“Yes,” Viktor agrees, stiff, as he runs his fingers through Makkachin’s fur to soothe himself. “Quite.”

“Forgive me.” Petrov shakes his head. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“I can tell,” Viktor says a little frostily. “And if you think I am not still grieving him, or that I’m not infuriated about—my lord, if you think that just because I can put aside my emotions for the sake of doing my duty to my family, my court, and my people, I am passively condoning what was done to Duke Feltsman, you can leave my presence immediately. If I must leave soon, I have no wish to spend my last hours here in the presence of those who make such assumptions of me.”

Petrov bows his head. “You are correct, Your Highness,” he says, nodding gravely. “I should not have spoken so callously. I beg your pardon. Duke Feltsman was important to us all, and we keenly feel his loss.”

Part of Viktor wants to lash out, wants to cry _no, you don’t!_ because they didn’t know Yakov like he did, and they can’t be grieving the Yakov he grieves, but—but.

But the freedom of the swan is gone, and he’s a bird with clipped wings, stuffed back into its cage. He’s the perfect prince now. If only Sunflower could see this.

“Thank you,” he answers, instead, inclining his head. “I accept your apology, Lord Petrov. Duke Feltsman was important to our entire court, and his presence will be dearly missed. He, too, did his utmost to fulfill his duty to Ruthenia. May he rest in peace.”

“May he rest in peace,” Petrov echoes. “You are gracious and kind as well, Your Highness.”

“Thank you,” Viktor says, again, now growing wary of so many compliments. Is Petrov trying to butter him up for something? “Pardon my bluntness, but is there a reason you came to call on me this morning? I am sure you are far too busy to be seeking out casual chats.”

“Astute as ever, Your Highness,” Petrov laughs. He smiles at Viktor, not unlike a concerned uncle, and leans forward. “I and a few others have a favor to ask of you—or a proposition, if you’d rather think of it that way. If you would hear me out?”

Interest piqued, Viktor nods and gestures for him to continue. Petrov’s side of court isn’t exactly known for liking to work with the crown all the time. What could they possibly want with him?

“Thank you, my prince.” Petrov clears his throat and clasps his hands together, leaning forward again. “It’s rather fitting that you began our conversation by speaking of your duty to Ruthenia—filling out our duties to our Ruthenia is what has driven my colleagues and me to plan what we have planned.

“You see, Your Highness, I do not believe we needed to surrender after last month’s battle, catastrophic though it may have been. Our supply trains were still running strong, and our army was not so diminished that we could not have countered to rout the Hinomotans. After Duke Feltsman’s death, too, surrendering even conditionally feels, to us, like a betrayal of his memory. Do you agree at all, Your Highness?”

Viktor hesitates. That hits very close to home—surrendering after Yakov’s death on the battlefield made him feel so sick he had to flee after the ceasefire talks ended and throw up. He hasn’t felt much better for even a second since. “Suppose I do…?”

Petrov smiles again. “Well, we have an idea for a strategy to take the Hinomotans by surprise and win.”

Viktor sits up in surprise, nearly sloshing tea out of his cup and onto poor Makkachin. “You mean breaking the terms of the treaty?”

That is a frankly terrible idea. If a sovereign ruler breaks a promise made in their own treaty, that would undermine their credibility so severely in all other realms of negotiation that they well as well abandon the throne—no other ruler would ever trust them again. Vasilisa Nikiforova would never agree to it, and for the sake of his family’s House, Viktor is quite remiss at the idea himself.

But Petrov is shaking his head. “No, no, not at all! Your mother wouldn’t be involved at all—this would have no reflection or bearing on her, or your house, or even you, if you are careful enough. Which I am sure you would be, my prince. You are an exceptional politician and courtier.”

Ignoring the compliments, Viktor furrows his brow. “What would you be asking me to do?”

Petrov takes a breath. “We’ve discussed many possibilities. The assassination of the king or queen would certainly cause a stir, but leaving a power vacuum in Hinomoto so soon after their victory in our war would only increase nationalistic fervor as their crown princess ascended. Were we to kill the heir, the spare would merely take her place, politically speaking, so in that regard, she’s very replacable.

“However, if we have the spare assassinated, it’s clearly a move intended purely to hurt, and while their outrage would solidify them, it wouldn’t be as much of an uproar as a new queen rallying her people against the murder of her parents would generate. Should we manage to execute this, as a group operating outside the Queen’s influence, it would not violate the treaty but _would_ likely be enough to reignite the war, and in this second conflict, we would have our proper chance at victory.”

Viktor sips his tea, conflicted, and stares down at the fingers stroking through Makkachin’s fur. On the one hand, he shouldn’t act behind his mother’s back. He shouldn’t, because the perfect prince wouldn’t, and he’s very aware that Petrov’s faction might try to use this as an opportunity to mold him into the prince they want, rather than letting him be Vasilisa Nikiforova’s perfect heir.

On the other hand, the fact that they surrendered right after Yakov’s death _stings._ Like his death was meaningless. He shouldn’t have died, and Hinomoto didn’t even have to pay for taking him.

“So… you want me to help you assassinate Hinomoto’s second prince?” he asks. Makkachin whines softly, and he strokes her ears more firmly.

“Essentially, yes,” Petrov agrees. “Though you wouldn’t be involved in the assassination itself. All we would ask of you is help determining his schedule, his movements, and things like that—just intelligence and reconaissance so that we can be most likely to be successful in one attempt.”

“Right.” Viktor purses his lips in thought, sips the rest of his tea, and sets the now-empty cup aside. This is… hm. This is a decision he shouldn’t make lightly. It could—and, ideally, it _would—_ lead to war breaking out again, and he needs to think about that, needs to think about whether they really, truly could go to war with Hinomoto again and come out victorious.

He loves Ruthenia. He doesn’t want to hurt her, doesn’t want to hurt his people.

But he does want to hurt Hinomoto.

His mind is made up, he realizes, because his heart is hurting and his heart knows what it wants, so (and there’s a pang as he thinks of Sunflower’s laughter, and oh, _I’m sorry, Sunflower, but I have to)_ he steels himself, swallows, and takes the plunge.

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

Petrov looks delighted. “Thank you so much, Your Highness! I knew you would see the merits of this plan.”

“I’ll do it, for Ruthenia,” Viktor repeats, trying to feel more firm in his conviction. Why does he feel so wavery? Why is his mouth so dry? Maybe if he says the whole thing out loud, it’ll be real and he won’t be afraid.

“For Ruthenia,” Petrov agrees.

Viktor nods. “For Ruthenia, I’ll help you kill Prince Yuuri Katsuki.”

* * *

 

He has brunch with his mother and Yura before he leaves.

It’s to be a small, quiet affair, just the three of them in a private sitting room; on his way there, Chris falls into step at his side, velvet cape flowing around his shoulders. He looks well—he must be relieved, Viktor thinks almost bitterly. The conferencing is over, and soon Ruthenian and Hinomotan statesmen alike will have no reason to keep staying in Elvetia’s neutral territory, bickering back and forth over a table all day. Chris and his family must be glad to see them all go.

“Hey, stranger. How are you holding up?” Chris asks, voice low but light, as if it’s a leisurely question at lunch and not like Viktor’s about to leave home indefinitely for a gilded cage.

Viktor has to swallow frustration and despair before he can answer, forcing his voice to be light and match. “I’m about as fine as you’d expect, I suppose. Why, do I look sad?”

Chris laughs, as if Viktor said something funny, and shakes his head. “Not at all! I’m glad your spirits are still high.”

“Right,” Viktor agrees, keeping bitter dryness out of his voice with effort. “My spirits are just as high as ever.”

“Glad to hear it,” Chris says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You know, with everyone leaving, it’s going to be incredibly quiet in this place soon. I can’t tell if I’m looking forward to it, or if it’ll just be strange after a month of talks.”

Viktor laughs humorlessly. “I guess you’ll get to find out soon, whether you like it or not.”

“Mmm.” Chris sighs, the mirth falling away as he squeezes Viktor’s shoulder. “I’ll miss you, Viktor.”

“I’ll miss you, too,” Viktor lies.

It’s not that he dislikes Chris—far from it. But when everyone keeps him at arm’s length, when everyone only knows the perfect prince and only Makkachin knows _Vitya,_ it’s hard to feel cherished. Hard to feel loved. Hard to feel like he’ll truly be missed.

And that makes it hard to cherish, to love, in turn. It hurts too much to treasure someone while knowing they don’t return the sentiment. So it’s safer, this way, safer for Viktor and his poor aching heart, if he just never lets anyone in and never tries to be let into anyone else’s heart.

Chris doesn’t seem to understand any of that, of course, so he just smiles and gives Viktor a quick hug as they arrive in front of the sitting room where Yura and the Queen must be waiting. “See you around, Nikiforov.”

Viktor quirks a smile at him. “See you, Giacometti.”

He enters the sitting room quietly, sees that his mother is waiting but that Yura has yet to arrive, and glances to the clock. He’s five minutes early; perhaps Yura will be right on time.

(Perhaps not. Yura is still learning. Perhaps he will be late.)

“Vitya,” Vasilisa says, her voice fond but sad. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mama.”

He takes a seat across from her at the table and hears his heart roaring in his ears, as he remembers his conversation with Petrov. But he can’t tell her a thing about it—if she knew and didn’t act, she could be accused of being a collaborator in their violation of the treaty. It’s imperative that she doesn’t find out.

“Did you enjoy the masquerade?” she asks, pouring him a cup of fragrant white tea. “I saw you dancing a few times.”

Thinking about the masquerade reminds him of Sunflower all over again, and his stomach turns. If he goes along with this plan, he’ll be Sunflower’s enemy again.

Then again, Sunflower made it quite clear that he didn’t want anything to do with him, at the end of the night. Maybe Sunflower already doesn’t care.

He doesn’t know which thought hurts more. He tries to push them all away.

“I did,” he answers. “It was grand. I met a few nobles from Hinomoto, though I don’t know which ones.”

Vasilisa laughs softly. “Understandable. I would have been a little concerned if you did. But I’m glad you had a good time. How are you, this morning?”

 _Sad,_ he wants to say. _Hurting, miserable, breaking, please don’t send me away, Mama, I don’t want to go, I’ll choke and drown and die once I get there and I’m going to hate every second of it, and I hate keeping secrets from you but I have to if I go so please, please don’t make me go—_

“I’m alright,” he manages, shrugging slightly and looking down at his lap. “Not exactly excited, but… I’ll survive.”

“You will,” she agrees, eyes sharp but her voice kind as she reaches across the table to tip his chin up. “You will survive, Vitya, and you will thrive, and if anyone harms a hair on your head, you will tell me, and I will personally make sure they regret it.”

Viktor laughs, horrified when it comes out watery and his voice threatens to break. “Y-you can’t threaten everyone in Hinomoto’s court, Mama…”

“I can,” she says, tweaking his nose, “and I will. Forget the crown—I’ll march over in my slippers and nightrobe and bang on their door until they hear me out.”

The image is so incongruous with his mother’s reputation that he has to laugh again, burying his face in his hands for a second. She’s trying to cheer him up before he leaves, and even though he knows it, it’s working. “Mama…”

She smiles at him, wistful. “Oh, my little one. I wish I could keep you close…”

Her voice is soft and sad and yearning, and Viktor looks away. He wishes that, too. He wishes he could go home with the rest of Ruthenia’s delegation. He wishes he could go back to the halls he knows, to the rooms he grew up in, to the ballrooms where he danced with Yakov and Lilia and his mother as a child.

But it’s his duty, and he can’t. He’s Ruthenia’s crown prince, the perfect one, and he has a duty to fulfill. The perfect prince cannot let down his country, and therefore Viktor cannot be weak and cry to go home. And his mother cannot beg to keep him close without sacrificing something else. And he can’t ask that of his country.

“I know,” he finally says. “But it’ll be okay. Maybe I can come home to visit sometimes.”

“That would be nice,” Vasilisa says, smiling at him again. “I think we might be able to arrange something. I would hate for you to have to miss Yura growing up…”

Viktor’s breath catches in his throat.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Me too.”

By the time Yura finally shows up, bleary-eyed and sleepy, Vasilisa is standing next to Viktor’s chair, stroking his shoulders as he clings to her and tries not to cry. He’s not entirely successful, but for once, his little cousin pays no comment. He’s grateful for that.

After all, it’s the last brunch he gets to have with his family.

“Gonna miss you, jerk,” Yura mutters, stealing sausage from his plate, and Viktor tries not to laugh or cry—he’s not entirely sure which. “Mostly for your dog.”

“Makkachin is a very good girl,” Viktor agrees, popping a raspberry into his mouth. “We’ll miss you, too, Yura.”

“You better,” Yura huffs, but his eyes are suspiciously bright all the way through their meal, and even after, until Viktor is ready to board his flight to Hinomoto. And then the tears spill over, coursing down his cheeks, and Yura clings to him like a little limpet.

“Yura,” Vasilisa murmurs, finally, after several minutes. “He’ll be late.”

“I don’t care,” Yura wails softly, his voice muffled by Viktor’s coat, and Viktor squeezes him as tight as he can. “If this is the last time I get to see him he can be fucking late, I don’t care—”

“Yura,” Viktor murmurs, echoing his mother even as his heart breaks. “I have to go.”

“I don’t want you to,” Yura sniffles. “It’s not fair!”

It _isn’t_ fair—Viktor has to leave his thirteen-year-old cousin with all the duties of a crown prince as he goes off into an effective exile, living as a ward of their enemies to represent their surrender, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair that he has to miss Yura’s fourteenth birthday, it’s not fair that Yura has to deal with all of this when he’s just a child, and it’s not fair that his mother was forced to put them in this situation—but it is what it is.

“I have to go now,” Viktor murmurs, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll miss you, Yura. Bye, Mama. I promise I’ll call often.”

The warmth of their final embraces fades quickly as the wind spells kick in, and the sky-carriage lifts far, far above Elvetia’s snowy mountains.


	2. would you whisper away my regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Katsukis return home, new ward in tow. Yuuri doesn't know how he feels about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music in a link again!

When they start to descend into Hinomoto, finally, it’s late. In fact, it’s so late it’s early, and the first hints of the sun are just starting to peep around the edges of the horizon. Yuuri shoots them a baleful glare before closing the sky-carriage’s window shutter and sighing, tossing and turning in his bunk. It’s not uncomfortable, but he barely got any rest, knowing that they brought Viktor Nikiforov home with them, and that he’s just on the other side of this wall.

Stupid Duke Suzuki. Why did he have to demand accountability in the form of a ward? He could have avoided making Yuuri’s life this much harder, but no!

 _Ugh._ He knows, on one level, that it’s not fair to his countrymen and his family’s court, to just be angry that they had to bring Prince Nikiforov with them. He knows what kinds of losses the war rained down on them—he knows, he _does,_ why Suzuki wants to make sure they have something over Ruthenia, to make sure they stay in line and don’t try anything anytime soon. Suzuki lost his son. He doesn’t want to lose his daughter, too.

But why couldn’t the Suzuki estate take the damn prince, then? Why do the Katsukis have to take him in?

(“Because we’re the royal family, Yuuri,” his mother explained patiently after the talks ended, seeming to understand his distress. “And we represent the center of our government, so we must.”)

(But it had been a rhetorical question, and her answer didn’t really make him feel any better.)

Vicchan, dozing next to him, lifts his tiny head and huffs in complaint that he keeps moving, and Yuuri sighs.

“Sorry, Vicchan. I just can’t sleep.”

He lays a hand on Vicchan’s side, feeling his heartbeat and the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and Vicchan yawns, pink tongue stretching out before he yips softly and curls into Yuuri’s side. At least one of them is getting some rest…

Yuuri closes his eyes again. There’s a little over forty minutes before they land at the palace skyport. Maybe he can nap even just a little bit of that time away. God, he’s so tired…

…and of course, because his luck is awful and he just can’t have any nice things, that’s the moment that his father chooses to rap on his door.

“Yuuri!” he calls, sliding it open. Yuuri favors him with the same baleful look that he shot at the sunrise. “We’re almost home. Come on, get up, freshen up before we land! We’ll have a quick snack, some tea maybe, and then you can go back to sleep.”

“Do I _have_ to?” Yuuri grouses. Vicchan licks his chin.

Toshiya laughs, though he looks—and feels—exhausted, too. Yuuri can feel all of them, everyone on this sky-carriage, and they’re _all_ still tired. Why do they have to have tea and snacks now? Ugh.

“Yes,” he says, smiling despite the bags under his eyes. “We _all_ are having tea and something to eat before we land, because we _all_ are a unit and we want to make sure our ward is aware of that.”

Right. Can’t show any weakness to the Nikiforov princeling. Can’t even look tired, probably. Yuuri huffs at the sunlight behind his father, then sits up, rubbing his eyes. Vicchan wriggles under the blankets as he vacates them, head pounding with a dull ache, and goes to the small restroom in his cabin.

“Meet us in the sitting area in fifteen minutes!” his father calls, and the door closes again.

“Fifteen minutes?” Yuuri glares at his reflection in the mirror as he splashes water on his face. That’s barely any time to make himself look presentable. How long ago did his parents wake up? Are they also just now telling Mari to not look like a disaster in front of Prince Nikiforov? If he was awake this whole time, he could have at least gotten ready, too, but no, he was stupid and didn’t think about the possibility of mandatory _tea and snacks_ at five in the damn morning!

He throws on some soft robes—pale blue accented with gold thread—and rakes a comb through his hair a few times, just enough to tame the bedhead, before putting on his golden circlet and sliding his feet into his fluffy slippers. The robes are long enough to cover his feet when he walks, and it’s too early for real shoes.

He does not bother with makeup. If he looks as dead-eyed as he feels, so be it. Let Viktor Nikiforov know that he’s tired and vaguely murderous and if prodded, will not hesitate to kill a man.

(Viktor Nikiforov. He doesn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. Queen Nikiforova seems earnest, at least, from what Yuuri has seen of her, but her son… he’s hard to read, and that makes Yuuri nervous.)

(At least anxiety serves to wake him up a little more.)

“Are you coming?” he asks Vicchan’s nose, which is the only part of him left out from under the blanket. Vicchan’s nose does not respond, so Yuuri takes that as a _no_ and leaves him to sleep—he deserves it, he’s a good boy, even though he _is_ abandoning Yuuri to do this alone—and walks out of his cabin.

In the main sitting area, his parents are waiting. Mari and Prince Nikiforov have yet to arrive (Yuuri gives himself a mental pat on the back for beating the seemingly flawless “ice prince” to the table), and Yuuri takes a seat across from his mother, stifling a yawn.

“Good morning, dear,” she greets, pouring him a cup of steaming green tea. He accepts it with a murmured thanks. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Not really,” Yuuri admits. He doesn’t even know what time it is in Elvetia right now, but he bets it’s late. He’s tired. God. Can the sun go back down for a few hours? He doesn’t want to deal with a stranger in the midst of his family right now. He’s too tired for this. His head hurts. “Did you?”

“Yes,” Hiroko says, smiling at her husband, who pats her hand. “We slept fairly well. You can get some more rest when we land, alright? Just remember to wake up in time for dinner tonight.”

“I will,” he mumbles. There’s rice, and eggs, too, and as his mother kindly pours some hot miso soup into a bowl for him, he takes his share of eggs and rice, settling back to wait for the others before he eats. “Thank you, Okaa-san.”

She smiles warmly. “You’re welcome.”

This feels like a normal family breakfast, so far, and curiosity starts to make him itch. Are his parents going to treat Viktor Nikiforov just like one of the family? Just what does it _mean,_ to have him as a “ward”, anyway? He’ll be living with them, yes, but will he be _living_ with them? He burns with the desire to ask, but he knows his parents would both give him that sharp, quelling look they share if he dared talk about someone who is expected to join them any second now.

So. Looks like he’ll just have to play this by ear.

Another cabin door opens and closes, and footsteps approach. It’s not often that Yuuri gets to tease Mari, so he blows on his tea and says, “You’re late, sleepyh—”

And his voice dies in his throat.

Because, of course, his luck is awful and he can’t have nice things. Which is to say, of course, it’s not Mari.

Of _course_ it’s Viktor Nikiforov.

Across the table, his parents exchange glances. They seem more amused than anything, if his empathic senses are to be trusted, which clearly they’re _not._ His dumb ass wasn’t paying attention enough to tell that Mari is still further away than Viktor Nikiforov, and he’d like to dive into the teapot and drown now, thanks—

“Ah… my apologies,” Prince Nikiforov says, voice light and a little uncertain, not at all what Yuuri expected. He thought this would be the same confident, seemingly untouchable man from the peace talks. “I must be making a terrible first impression, being tardy—”

“No, no. Not at all.” Hiroko waves a hand soothingly, gestures at the sofa Yuuri is sitting on, and smiles her most reassuring smile. “Yuuri merely mistook you for his sister, Prince Viktor. Be at ease. Would you like some tea?”

Even at five in the morning, Yuuri has enough composure not to complain, but he _does_ grumble in his head. Why did she have to point Nikiforov to the seat next to Yuuri? Why couldn’t she let him go to the seat at the far end of the table so Mari could sit there?

“Ah, yes please, thank you,” Nikiforov says, impeccably polite. He sits down next to Yuuri, back ramrod straight, and doesn’t relax his posture at all until a poodle pokes its nose around the corner of the sofa next to him. Then his carefully-neutral expression cracks into a tiny smile. “Makkachin…” he sighs, laying a hand on the dog’s curly head, and Yuuri determinedly stares into his tea because _that dog is so cute, oh god._ “I’m very sorry, Your Majesties—she whined when I tried to leave her in my cabin. Is it alright if she sits with us? She’s well-behaved and won’t be a bother!”

“I don’t think that would be a problem,” Toshiya assures, shaking his head. “What did you say her name was, again?”

“Makkachin,” Nikiforov answers. The dog—Makkachin—perks up at the sound of her name, ears twitching, but when nothing else is forthcoming, she lays her chin on Nikiforov’s knee.

“Makkachin,” Toshiya repeats. “Good morning, Makkachin! Did you know, Prince Viktor, that our Yuuri has a dog too? He looks a lot like yours!”

“But smaller,” Yuuri adds, almost mumbled into his tea, because this is small talk and it’s awkward and he just called their new ward _sleepyhead_ and he doesn’t want to be here. “He’s much smaller.”

“Oh,” Prince Nikiforov says, nodding. “That’s nice.”

What follows is one of the most awkward silences of Yuuri’s life. He sips his tea and stares at his untouched rice, wishing he could just go back to his cabin and hide. God, why did Suzuki do this to him? Can they just rewrite the treaty and send Nikiforov back to Ruthenia?

The thought of Ruthenia gives him pause, just for a moment. He’s only ever been once, many, many years ago, before the war broke out, on a state visit with his parents, and he doesn’t really remember much about it other than that it was very cold. Come to think of it, he must have met Prince Nikiforov then, but he doesn’t remember it. What hits him now, though, like a gust of icy air punching him in the stomach, is that Ruthenia is all Prince Nikiforov has ever known. If their positions were reversed, and it was him going to Petersburg as a ward of the Nikiforovs…

He’d be terrified.

Maybe he should be a little more sympathetic to the Prince. After all, he _does_ feel afraid, and uncertain and awkward too, and under that… Yuuri focuses a little more, closes his eyes for a moment to help himself concentrate, and senses a vast thread of resentment, and under that, deep, bitter hurt.

Something wet touches his wrist, and he jerks in surprise and opens his eyes abruptly as Makkachin licks his hand again. Her eyes are big and watery and brown, and she rumbles softly as she lays her head on his knee, looking up plaintively.

“She wants you to pet her,” Prince Nikiforov says, a touch unnecessarily, as Yuuri starts to stroke the soft fur behind her ears. “She really does like attention. Sorry—Makka, don’t bother the prince—”

“She’s no bother,” Yuuri hurries to explain, almost defensive as he scratches under Makkachin’s chin and rubs the ridge in her forehead. She’s not a bother, she’s very sweet, and he loves dogs, and he doesn’t mind her at all, and when he tries to say any (or all) of that at once, what tumbles out of his mouth is, “I love her.”

Prince Nikiforov blinks once, surprised, and then chuckles lightly. “I’m glad. So do I.”

Makkachin’s tail thumps against the carpet. Yuuri decides to focus on her to more easily ignore the way his ears are burning—his brain doesn’t _work_ when he’s this tired, why is he being forced to be a polite prince type—as he mentally reaches over to Mari’s cabin and finds her somehow in a state of frantic bleariness.

 _Hurryplease-hurryplease,_ he sends her, poking at her consciousness a little desperately, and she jolts in response. Unlike him, she’s never been interested in empathy and all the rigorous mental training it requires, but everyone in his family has grown accustomed to his occasional empathic prods and tugs. He’s been learning since he was a little kid, and using empathy to communicate with those closest to him is as natural as breathing.

Within a few seconds, Mari’s cabin door finally opens, and she steps out looking far more put-together than her mind feels. At least he’s not the only tired and grouchy one, Yuuri supposes. It’s a small comfort to know that they’re both in this together.

“Good morning, Mari,” Hiroko greets, pouring one final cup of tea. Yuuri has to take the kettle and refill his own cup a little guiltily—he’s drunk most of it by now, as a way to avoid conversation—as his sister sits down, away from him, in the seat Prince Nikiforov _should_ have been in.

“Good morning, Okaa-san, Otou-san. Yuuri. Good morning, Prince Viktor.” Mari inclines her head graciously, accepting her tea as Toshiya passes it over. “I’m sorry I made everyone wait.”

“It’s no trouble,” Prince Nikiforov says, smiling that thin smile of his at her. Yuuri has to hide his discomfort by rubbing Makkachin’s head again. That’s a court smile if he’s ever seen one, and he doesn’t trust it. That’s the kind of smile that doesn’t at all reach Prince Nikiforov’s eyes.

(Which is a pity, in a way. Prince Nikiforov is a handsome man. He would surely be even more so with a real, happy smile.)

(But that’s not Yuuri’s concern.)

(Especially not right now, because he’s far more focused on the rice that he’s _finally_ allowed to eat now that Mari is here.)

“Please,” Yuuri’s mother says. “Everyone, let’s eat. Welcome home.”

A flicker of sharp emotion flashes through Prince Nikiforov’s mental landscape before it’s quickly silenced, shoved into a box or swept under a rug if Yuuri had to guess, and he winces more out of sympathy than anything. This isn’t home for Prince Nikiforov. Not at all.

They start to eat, and silence falls, broken only by the soft clinks of chopsticks against the ceramic of their bowls. Makkachin seems disinterested once she realizes it’s tea, rice, and miso soup, rather than steak, perhaps, and lies down, head across her front paws as she wiggles under the sofa.

But after a few moments, it becomes apparent that Prince Nikiforov is struggling. He’s not holding his chopsticks very securely, and though he seems determined not to ask for help, Yuuri notices him sneaking a glance at Yuuri’s own hand, trying to figure out how he’s doing it, and then adjusting his grip.

“Um… here,” he murmurs, not looking at his parents or even at Mari, because he doesn’t want to embarrass Prince Nikiforov. “If you hold the first one against your finger like this and keep it stationary, it’s a lot easier…”

“Oh,” Prince Nikiforov says, face flushing. Shit, Yuuri embarrassed him anyway. He repositions his hand, emulating Yuuri’s, and glances at him inquisitively. “Like this?”

“Almost, um—” Yuuri hesitates for a moment, then reaches over and adjusts his fingers, so that the chopstick rests more firmly against his knuckle. His hands are surprisingly warm. “It’s kind of like holding a pen, almost?”

“Oh,” Prince Nikiforov says again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Yuuri mumbles, going back to his food quickly. Prince Nikiforov gives him a long, strangely searching look—searching for what, Yuuri doesn’t know—before he goes back to his rice, too, and across the table, Yuuri’s mother gives him an approving smile.

* * *

“Yuuri! Welcome home!”

That’s all the warning he gets before Phichit slams into him—and yes, he means _slams_ ; he might as well have just gotten bowled over by a wrecking ball—as he enters the courtyard. As generally expected of someone who gets essentially attacked, he stumbles and falls with a yelp, landing in the grass with a _thump_.

“Ow!”

“Sheesh, did you leave your ability to stand up in Elvetia?” Phichit blinks down at him, lying atop him. “You just fell right over!”

“You shoved me!” Yuuri rolls over, pushing him aside in the process. “Of course I’d fall over!”

“I didn’t _shove_ you!” Phichit protests. “I just _hugged_ you! You’re just a pansy! Falling over the second someone tries to be affectionate. God, Yuuri, you weakling.”

“I’m _tired!”_ Yuuri whines. “I’m tired and you shoved me. You’re a bully!”

“I literally _just_ said I didn’t shove you.”

“You don’t get to make that call when it’s your fault I fell over in the first place!”

“What kind of rule is that? Of course I get to make the call about what it was that I did! Or can I say that you didn’t fall over, you just _collapsed?_ Because you totally just collapsed.”

Phichit, by this time, has gotten to his feet again and dusted himself off. Yuuri sits up and puffs out his cheeks petulantly, trying not to laugh—he was only gone for ten days, just the end of the peace talks, but it was one of the longest ten days of his _life._ It feels nice to be back home, back in the familiar courtyards of Hasetsu Palace, and back with his (mean bully wrecking ball) of a best friend.

“I didn’t _collapse._ You shoved me.” He holds out his hand to ask for Phichit to pull him up, but as soon as Phichit rolls his eyes good-naturedly and takes it, he yanks as hard as he can and successfully sends him sprawling across the grass.

“Yuuri, you asshole!” Phichit laughs, rolling over and hopping back to his feet. This time, Yuuri gets up, too, groaning as his tired body protests, and sighs. “C’mon, Yuuko’s probably already waiting for us! You don’t wanna keep her waiting, do you? Unless you do, because you’re an asshole…”

“If I’m an asshole, you’re a bigger one, because you knocked me over first,” Yuuri retorts, swatting his arm as they start walking. “I did nothing wrong.”

Phichit gives him a Look. “I have a _list_ of things you’ve done wrong.”

“Yeah, and I saw a pig flying while we were on the sky-carriage.”

“It’s _alphabetized.”_

“You are the literal worst.”

“You mispronounced best.”

“No, I definitely didn’t.”

Eventually, they make their way into the gardens, slipping past a few guards that nod at Yuuri as he walks by, and into the private courtyard where Yuuko, granted permission by Yuuri’s mother while he was napping, is waiting with a picnic luncheon, just for the three of them. No Viktor Nikiforov, no awkwardness.

The picnic is lovely, spread out in the gazebo covered in climbing roses, and full of steaming, hot food just waiting for the three of them to dig in. Yuuri sighs as he settles down, toeing out of his shoes and taking a spot on the rough blanket.

“Thanks, Yuu-chan,” he says, again. “This looks wonderful.”

“You’re welcome!” Yuuko claps her hands. “Eat up, I hope you enjoy! There’s lots of food. But Yuuri! You have to tell! So, what was Elvetia like? Was it cold? What happened at the meetings? You went to the masquerade, right?”

Yuuri chokes on his first mouthful of rice.

_The masquerade._

He’s been trying not to think about it all day, but holy shit, he can’t run away from it forever, can he? It’s not like he’s ever going to see Sir Swan again anyway, but holy shit, holy shit. The masquerade!

Phichit thumps his back. “Whoa! Hello, Earth to Yuuri, you good in there? What happened in Elvetia? You look like a tomato all of a sudden!”

“My face is red because I choked on my food, you bully,” Yuuri croaks, taking several gulps of water. It’s a poor excuse, but it’s better than none.

God, he’d been doing such a good job of trying to forget about the masquerade up until now. He really did like dancing and talking with the swan noble, whoever he was, and spending all evening in his company had been the easiest thing in the world—it was so obvious that he was upset, but he started to smile, and laugh even, more and more as the evening drew on, and Yuuri liked that, too. Just thinking about it makes his face heat, because…

Because…

“Fine, fine,” Yuuko laughs. “But don’t leave us hanging! You were there! What was it like? What happened? We heard the treaty stuff, and the thing about Prince Nikiforov—goodness, he gave me such a fright earlier—but we didn’t hear what it was all—”

“Wait, wait.” Yuuri blinks. “You met Prince Nikiforov already?”

Yuuko nods, eyes going wide. “He was so _tall!_ I didn’t realize he would be—he got lost, he said, and ended up in the kitchen. I didn’t hear him behind me and I nearly hit him with a cast iron pan! I felt so bad, oh—Phichit, laugh at me one more time and I will hit you with a cast iron pan on _purpose_ —and he just looked so confused! I didn’t know what to do so I just told him that he was welcome in the kitchens anytime, even if it was just to ask for directions. And then I told him how to get to your parents’ receiving room, and he left.”

“Whaaaat,” Phichit complains. “So of all of us, I’m the only one that still hasn’t met him?”

“He has a dog,” Yuuri says, as if it’s the most important fact about Prince Nikiforov, possibly because it _is._ “She’s very cute. Her name is Makkachin. She sat on my foot while we were having breakfast and I almost died.”

“Hey!” Phichit looks around. “Where’s Vicchan? _Yuuri…_ don’t tell me you forgot him in Elvetia…”

Horrified, Yuuri swats his arm again. “You _monster!_ How could I ever do that? He’s _sleeping,_ and I didn’t want to wake him up! Travel just tired him out!”

“Did Vicchan do anything interesting in Elvetia?” Yuuko asks, taking a bite of her rice and fish curry. “Other than Prince Nikiforov’s dog, were there others? Did he make any friends?”

“He didn’t, really,” Yuuri says sheepishly, because Vicchan didn’t have the opportunity to make friends. He was at Yuuri’s side the whole time because Yuuri was a nervous wreck the whole time, and needed his support.

Except for at the masquerade, when Yuuri leaned on the swan lord instead, and then…

“That’s too bad.” Yuuko shakes her head. “What were the Ruthenians like?”

Yuuri swallows. The war had a lot of Hinomotans angry, and to be sure, the Ruthenians definitely had a hand in starting it, though to be honest it was both of their policies clashing that led to the escalation. But… The Ruthenians he met were all just… people. Like him and his family, like everyone in his court.

“They were alright,” he finally answers, cautious but honest. “The Queen of Ruthenia is kind of scary, and Prince Plisetsky kicked me, but other than them, everyone I met was polite. I mean… I know we were enemies, but we aren’t anymore, so… I mean… They weren’t bad. I’m not saying they didn’t do anything wrong, and you—I didn’t, you know, I didn’t really make any friends? I just mean they weren’t all bad.”

“Did you kick Prince Plisetsky back?” Phichit wants to know.

“He’s a _kid,_ ” Yuuri scoffs. “Of course not.”

“Fair point.” Phichit sighs and reaches for another ladleful of curry.

“Were negotiations stressful?” Yuuko asks, eyes wide. Her job in the kitchens doesn’t leave her with a ton of time to observe court, so she’s always curious; Yuuri used to learn recipes from her and her father as a child, and then play king-and-queen in return. “What was that like?”

He sighs, pushing a single grain of rice around his bowl, and pushes his hair back from his face. “They… yeah, they were tense. The Ruthenians didn’t like a lot of the stipulations we proposed, but we didn’t like how they were trying to get themselves off the hook for a lot of things, like they were trying to be too lenient on themselves, and you know, some people, like Suzuki, really didn’t like that. He’s the one who had the idea that we should take Prince Nikiforov home.”

Yuuko wrinkles her nose. “I would’ve thought he’d want nothing to do with any Ruthenians.”

Yuuri quirks his lips into a tiny, humorless smile. “You’d think, but he wants him as insurance. To make sure that Ruthenia knows if they put a toe out of line, he’s a prisoner of war.” He sighs again, pressing his lips together, and looks down into his bowl for a long moment. “I… feel bad for him, honestly. He’s basically a hostage, and he had to leave everyone he knew behind to move here, where nobody knows or trusts him. I’d be such a mess if that was me.”

“That’s gotta suck,” Phichit agrees. “But hey, it’s what they get for losing.”

“Yeah…” Yuuri shrugs. “I just… he feels like he’s really lost. And sad. Which—that all makes _sense,_ you know? I just feel bad for him.”

“Yeah.” Yuuko pats his arm. “Yuuri, you’re just a kind person. That’s all!”

“And also a literal empath,” Phichit adds. “That too.”

Yuuri gives him a dry look.

“He does seem nice enough, though.” Yuuko pours all three of them more tea, and Yuuri sends her a little push of gratitude. “At least, from what I saw of him. Very polite, very handsome, kind of… sad?”

“Sad,” Yuuri agrees, thinking of how isolated Prince Nikiforov felt, all the way through the flight. It was a very long, very awkward fourteen hours, and though he tried to sleep for most of it, he wasn’t entirely successful. Prince Nikiforov spent almost the entire flight in his cabin alone with his dog, except for the very beginning when he greeted them and then at breakfast.

God, it’s going to be so awkward having him just living here. He’s officially a ward of the Katsuki family, not the general palace—are they supposed to incorporate him into their daily lives and schedules? They can’t just ignore him and let him sit around doing nothing _—_ well… maybe they _could_ ignore him, but Yuuri balks at the thought. Not only would it be some kind of hazard, not giving a foreigner who up until very recently was an official enemy of the state any sort of surveillance, but also it would just be cruel. Adding insult to injury, as it were. Like, _yes, you have to leave your family behind, and ours is going to lock you out._

This is so awkward. And _indefinitely_ awkward. Who does he have to talk to to figure out if Prince Viktor has an itinerary to follow every day like the rest of the Katsukis? Does he technically have to listen? What is he even supposed to _do?_

“Oh my god,” he mutters, eyes widening in sudden horror as a thought occurs to him. “Do you think he’s gonna be there every time we have family dinner from now on?”

Phichit sucks in a breath. “Well… he sure _is_ a ward of your family, so… probably.”

Yikes. No thanks. Yuuri stands up and walks barefoot into the grass next to the gazebo, sinks to the ground, and lies down spread-eagled in the sunlight.

“What are you doing?” Yuuko laughs. “You still have tea…”

“I’m becoming one with the dirt,” Yuuri says blandly. “I’m done being a person. I’ve had enough.”

“You’re not wearing enough green to photosynthesize.” Phichit’s shadow looms over him, giving him just a second’s warning before a handful of dried summer grass rains down over his face. “You’re failing your plant test. You’re no good at this.”

“I said I’m _dirt,_ not a _plant,_ ” Yuuri huffs, spitting grass out and sneezing. “Leave me alone and work on your listening comprehension.”

Phichit laughs and walks back to the gazebo. “Okay, dirty boy. Guess you don’t want this tea, then…”

“You touch my tea and I will revoke your Vicchan priviliges for _life,_ ” Yuuri threatens, sitting bolt upright. “Bitch.”

“Such language,” Phichit says, putting a hand over his heart. “I hope you didn’t talk to the Ruthenians like that. Imagine—Yuuri goes up to Queen Nikiforova and says, ‘Bitch,’ and then—”

“I would literally die,” Yuuri interjects, eyes going wide again at the thought. “She would kill me on the spot, Phichit. I would _die._ You haven’t met her, so you don’t get it, but I would literally die.”

“If you die, I’ll kill you,” Yuuko threatens. “Now get over here and finish your food before it gets cold!”

“Don’t worry.” Yuuri dusts himself off and drags himself back to the gazebo, settling back down next to her. “I have at least a _slight_ sense of self-preservation—”

“Debatable,” Phichit sings.

“—so there’s no way I would ever even _think_ that in the same room as her.”

“Unless you were at the masquerade,” Phichit grins. “Then, she couldn’t tell it’s you if you said it.”

“Still not risking that, literally ever,” Yuuri deadpans.

“The masquerade sounds like it must have been so dreamy,” Yuuko sighs, clasping her hands. “Tense, but fabulous! Like something out of a storybook… You still haven’t told me! What was it like, Yuuri?”

The soft touch of Sir Swan’s lips, the touch of his hand cupping Yuuri’s cheek, and the little _bump_ of their masks knocking together, all flash across Yuuri’s mind, and he swallows hard. “Um…”

He’s desperately trying to keep his heart rate steady at the thought of the masquerade, but it’s very hard when every single time he remembers it he wants to kick himself for just running away. Why does he run away from every single thing that scares him? He—that kiss was _nice,_ and he liked—he liked it, but liking it scared him because… because he saw the way everyone was staring at them, a Hinomotan and a Ruthenian having fun together, and the idea of anyone seeing them _together-_ together scared him and…

…and he ran.

And now here he is, on the other side of the world, with no way to ever find Sir Swan again.

Fuck.

“—doubt he’s even listening. Yoo-hoo,” Phichit sing-songs. “Yuuri? Are you in there? Earth to Yuuri, come in Yuuri.”

Yuuri jerks himself back to reality with a flash. “Guh?”

“Eloquent,” Phichit observes, eyebrows raised. “So! What about the masquerade has you so distracted, hmmm?”

Oh, god, what a rookie mistake, getting so lost in his thoughts that it’s noticeable. If he was at court, he’d have just been eaten alive. But he can’t even be mad at himself for ruminating—he’s going to be wondering about Sir Swan for the rest of his _life._ What might have been if he _hadn’t_ run, if they’d… if he…

“Yuuri,” Yuuko prods, poking him in the side with a finger. “Yuuri!”

Yuuri looks between her and Phichit, heart sinking. He’s not getting out of this, is he.

“AcuteboykissedmebutIranaway,” he squeaks, burying his face in his hands.

Phichit blinks. “What?”

 _“What!?”_ Yuuko shrieks, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking. “Yuuri Katsuki, you tell me everything _right this instant_ or else I will whack you with a soup ladle—”

“Wait, what did he say!” Phichit jumps in.

“Please don’t kill me!” Yuuri begs, desperate.

“Yuuri?” Phichit demands. “Yuuri, repeat that but slower!”

“Please stop yelling at me!” Yuuri whines, sure his face is redder than his robes. “Yuu-chan, I’m innocent, don’t shake me—”

“Innocent my _foot!_ How dare you not open with that!” Yuuko stops shaking him to squish his cheeks. “I told you I wanted the good gossip and you _didn’t_ immediately say that?”

“What did he _say?”_

 _“A cute boy kissed me and I ran away!”_ Yuuri wails. Silence falls over the garden for a second, punctured only by the twittering of a bird.

Phichit stares at him, eyes slowly growing rounder and rounder. “You—who was it?! Holy _shit!_ Yuuri! Oh my god, wait, do you have a boyfriend now—wait, no, you ran away, so you can’t. Who was it? Did you want him to? You said he’s _cute,_ that sounds suspiciously like you’re into him—”

“I don’t _know_ who he was,” Yuuri despairs, shoulders slumping. “He was… he was Ruthenian.”

Yuuko and Phichit exchange glances.

“Oooh,” Yuuko hums. “Yuuri, you’re getting yourself into some star-crossed lovers territory…”

“Wait. How did you know he’s cute if you don’t know who he was?” Phichit frowns. “Did you guys… take your masks off? He would probably have recognized you, Yuuri…”

“We didn’t take our masks off.” Yuuri hangs his head a little miserably. “It was just… I don’t know. The way he acted? Or when he laughed? And he had such a nice smile and—and…” His cheeks heat all over again, and he buries his face in his hands, remembering the way Sir Swan guided him around the dance floor, gentle and firm, remembering the way Sir Swan told him… “And he told me I was beautiful.”

“Awww,” Yuuko coos.

“But you were wearing a mask!” Phichit protests.

Yuuri laughs, face still in his hands. “That’s what I said to him! But he said that it didn’t matter. He—he was so nice, but so sad, and I… I wish I didn’t run away, but I’m a dumbass and an idiot and when he kissed me I just—I froze up and I didn’t know what to do, so I did… you know, the only thing I ever do. I ran.”

Yuuko pries his hands away from his face. “Yuuri,” she says gently, “it’s okay that you were scared.”

“He probably hates me now.” Yuuri shakes his head, glum. “I just ran away from the entire party after that. I avoided him that hard. I’m so _stupid!_ Argh!”

He throws himself back to the ground, frustrated, and stares up at the ceiling of the gazebo. Why did he have to run? Why the hell did he have to run? Replaying it in his mind, it would’ve been so easy to just—he could have easily just sat there and told Sir Swan he was scared! Would that have been so hard?

(Yes.)

No! No it wouldn’t! He’s just a fucking moron.

“It’s not the end of the world,” Yuuko consoles, patting his knee. “If he was Ruthenian, he was with the Ruthenian delegation. I bet Prince Nikiforov might know who he was. You can ask him sometime, Yuuri. Who was the… what was he dressed as?”

“A swan,” Yuuri mumbles miserably. “He was dressed as a swan.”

“There you go!” Yuuko claps her hands together briskly, all business. “You can ask him, find out who it was, and write to him. I’m sure if you just explain why you ran, he won’t be upset. He’d understand. Oh, Yuuri, that’s so _romantic._ He told you you were beautiful without even needing to see your face… that’s so sweet!”

“It was,” Yuuri admits. He wants to dance with Sir Swan again. Wants to make him laugh like he laughed that night, after they danced and talked and danced some more, when the shadow of his sorrow finally lifted from his eyes, even if just for a few hours. He wants…

“If you don’t ask him, I will,” Phichit threatens. “We’re gonna find your Ruthenian boyfriend, Yuuri. It’s a mission. Yuuko and Phichit, master problem-solvers, are on the case!”

“Master troublemakers, more like,” Yuuri mutters, but he can’t quite hide a smile. “At least give me a little time to talk to him myself before you go bully him. Don’t shove him over too, will you? It’d be rude.”

Phichit winks as he pours himself a second glass of water. “No promises!”

* * *

The light has faded from the evening sky, and even the last vestiges of dusk have trickled away to the far west fringes of the clouds. The stars are beginning to come out, just a few, twinkling here and there, and it should be peaceful, but…

Yuuri fidgets.

He’s anxious.

He’s so fucking anxious.

Even running his hands through Vicchan’s fur isn’t helping. Or—it’s _helping,_ but not enough. Cradling Vicchan’s little fuzzy body against his chest and feeling his warmth and his heartbeat and his little occasinal snuffles… it’s good? It’s good, but it’s not stopping the awful, swirling thoughts in his head, the ones crowding and choking and dragging him down.

He’s fucking stupid and bad and dumb and he should never be allowed to talk to people again. Specifically, Viktor Nikiforov. Because he _tried_ doing that at dinner and it didn’t work, and he’s going to hide under his fucking bed for the rest of time.

“Vicchan,” he whines, burying his face in his dog’s fur. “Vicchan, why am I so bad at everything?”

Vicchan huffs softly and as expected, doesn’t say much. He does offter a little puppy kiss to Yuuri’s ear, which, while weird, is still a sentiment he appreciates.

Ugh. He needs a distraction. Maybe then he’ll stop replaying the moment when Viktor told him _thanks for the politeness, but I’m really just not interested in making small talk_. Maybe he should find something… fuck, he just wants to go to the kitchens and nervously eat an entire tub of ice cream.

Well…

…Well.

He’s a prince. There is, technically, no reason that he cannot go to the kitchens and nervously eat an entire tub of ice cream.

“I’m a disaster, Vicchan,” he mumbles, taking a deep breath. “I’m a total disaster. Wanna go out, boy? Let’s go out?”

Standing, he squeezes Vicchan to his chest (gently!! Not tight enough to hurt him!!) and kisses his head. Vicchan yawns but doesn’t whine or paw to be put down, even when he goes to the door and slips his feet into some sandals, so Yuuri doesn’t feel bad about taking him out. Maybe when they get to the kitchens, he’ll find some nice bits of meat or some of those peanut treats Yuuko makes just for Vicchan, and he can reward the best boy for being The World’s Best Boy.

Nice! Now he’s not just stress-eating to avoid his anxiety. He’s doing the very important task of rewarding Vicchan. It’s a legitimate task and it must be done.

He balances Vicchan against his hip and pushes the door of his suites open, padding quietly across the dimly-lit gardens toward the building that houses the kitchen. Vicchan sneezes against his sleeve.

When he gets to the [kitchens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bR3N1yBEGbw), they’re dark, too—it’s late enough that the kitchen staff are all gone, which Yuuri is thankful for. He doesn’t want to face anyone who might judge him as he shovels a pint of ice cream down his throat and then cries about it, especially Yuuko, who might ask _what’s wrong._ God. He just… ugh. He’s. Such a disaster.

He tiptoes in, goes to the small freezer that may or may not be stocked with ice cream purely for when he needs it, and pulls out a pint, keeping Vicchan balanced in the crook of his arm. Turning around, he reaches for the drawer where the spoons are and—

_Screams._

Vicchan yelps and jerks in his arms, and he drops the ice cream to hold onto him with both arms, wildly stumbling backwards until his back hits the wall and he stands there, heart thundering in the dimness, and stares at _Viktor Fucking Nikiforov._

“I—oh—I, um, didn’t—I didn’t see you there,” he stammers, face heating as anxiety closes a stone fist around his stomach and twists. Of course it’s the last person in the world he wants to see. Of course. Of course! “Sorry, um—I. I should go. I…”

Nikiforov raises an eyebrow. “You’re apologizing to me for being in your own family’s kitchens?”

 _Fuck._ Why does he apologize for everything? Now he’s making the Katsuki house look stupid. God, why didn’t he stay in his rooms? Why the hell did he have to come here? Why the hell did _Nikiforov_ —

Actually.

“Uh. Sorry, why are… what are you doing here, exactly?” he asks, recovering enough to bend down and pick up his forgotten pint of ice cream. Vicchan licks his cheek.

Nikiforov shrugs. His hair isn’t up anymore, instead hanging in a low, loose ponytail that runs down his back, and it catches the moonlight from the window. “I… needed something to do, so I was looking for a snack for Makkachin. Sorry for startling you.”

Something about him feels _off._ Yuuri doesn’t know what to make of it, but there’s something sharp and bitter and sad, and below that…

 _…bad. bad, wrong, bad-stayaway-stayback_ …

… Something else?

He doesn’t know what it is he’s feeling, but he doesn’t like it. Viktor Nikiforov is sharp and bitter like brittle glass, and for some reason, Yuuri is _afraid_ of him. Or at least, his empathy wants him to be.

Heart pounding, he lowers his face to press his lips to Vicchan’s head for a moment, needing to collect himself. It might just be residual anxiety from… earlier… and once again, he remembers earlier and wants to _die._ Shame makes his cheeks flush, though thankfully it’s dark enough that he doubts it’s visible.

“It’s fine,” he finally says. “There’s some treats in this cabinet here, in the tub marked for Vicchan, um…” and he realizes that he forgot to grab them, too busy screaming. “See, these ones,” he adds lamely, sitting down on the floor and opening the cabinet door. He lets Vicchan sit in his lap now, grateful beyond measure when he snuggles close to his stomach as if he knows just how badly Yuuri needs his comfort in this moment, and reaches for the box.

It’s not a large box to begin with, and there’s only five little  left. Yuuri takes one, holds it in his palm, and offers it to Vicchan, who perks up, ears pricking and tail wagging, as he very politely takes it into his mouth, careful not to bite Yuuri’s hand.

“Here,” Yuuri says, offering the tub up to Nikiforov with a hand that he desperately hopes isn’t shaking. “You can take one. Makkachin will probably love them. Yuuko makes them, with, um, with peanut butter and mashed bananas and beef broth…”

Vicchan licks the last remnants from his palm, and Yuuri lets out a breath. He doesn’t want to be here. But his legs are Grade-A Anxiety Jelly, so his best bet is hoping that now that Nikiforov has treats for Makkachin, he’ll go away, and Yuuri can sit here until he can walk again.

Nikiforov takes a treat. “Thank you,” he says…

…and doesn’t leave.

 Well, fuck.

“Do… do you need anything else?” Yuuri stares at Vicchan instead of looking up, because it’s less mortifying that way. Why is this happening!!! He is a good person and does not deserve this!!!

Viktor Nikiforov sighs softly. To Yuuri’s horror, he folds his legs and sinks to sit on the floor _with him, what is happening, no go away,_ and purses his lips. “I… wanted to apologize,” he says, not quite looking at him. “For earlier. At dinner. I was rather rude to you, wasn’t I? I’m sorry, Prince Katsuki.”

“Oh.”

That’s… that’s unexpected. Yuuri lets out a slow breath.

“I… it’s alright,” he finally says, voice small as he gathers Vicchan close to his chest again. “I was being insensitive, I’m sure—of course you wouldn’t be interested in making small talk, not when… in this situation, I mean, when circumstances are—and you had to leave and—”

“You were trying to welcome me, and I rejected you,” Viktor cuts in, oddly gentle. “I’m sorry. I… I was distracted, but that’s no excuse, and I know my mo—the Queen would expect better from me, a ward in your court.”

So _that’s_ why he’s apologizing, Yuuri realizes. He’s nervous about repercussions, if Yuuri were to voice complaints about his brusqueness, and if they were to reach Queen Nikiforova. It makes sense. He wouldn’t want to disappoint Queen Nikiforova, either.

But something about that idea makes him horribly, achingly sad.

It takes him a full thirty seconds to realize it’s not _his_ sadness.

“After all,” Viktor adds (when _did_ he start thinking of him as Viktor, and not Prince Nikiforov?), bitter again in a way that’s almost familiar, “I’m here because I’m supposed to be a very good example of a crown prince. I ought to live up to it.”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” Yuuri says, very, very quietly, still reeling from how _much_ Viktor is hurting. He can feel it, in pulsating, deep waves, threatening to drown him, and it’s painful. He was _right:_ Viktor is hurting a lot, being ripped away from his family while grieving, and forced to move to a completely foreign place, and…

…and wouldn’t it be a proper show of Hinomotan goodwill, if Yuuri and his family were to extend an olive branch? (Or at the least, wouldn’t it be a lot less awkward at family dinners with their ward?)

“Don’t I?”

Viktor tilts his head back, leans it against the cabinet door behind him, and closes his eyes. Yuuri takes the moment to shyly study his profile in the moonlight, from the proud lines of his jaw to the stark shape of his nose and the silky, silvery tresses cascading over his shoulder.

God, he’s so _sad._

He studies him a moment longer. Why is this aching bitterness familiar? What is it about Viktor Nikiforov’s sorrow, his pale profile, his soft hair, that tugs at the back of his mind?

… _the strains of a waltz, the taste of champagne…_

… _a whispered_ ”You’re beautiful,” _and a kiss…_

_…The mask of a swan._

It clicks.

 _Oh,_ Yuuri thinks, staring with wide eyes. _Oh. Oh, my god._

Acting on impulse, he kisses Vicchan’s head, then picks him up, leans over, and deposits him in Viktor’s arms.

“Here,” he says, as Viktor opens his eyes in surprise. His arms automatically curve around Vicchan as he sniffs and wriggles, confused, but settles down in his lap without a fuss. “I, um… He makes me feel better, when I’m sad. And, um, you look sad. So… hold him? And he can help. He’s very good at helping.”

Vicchan licks the underside of Viktor’s chin right as he opens his mouth to speak, and he ends up just letting out a surprised laugh that fades into a tiny smile.

Yuuri _knows_ that smile, he realizes, thunderstruck.

He _did_ keep thinking he wanted a second chance with his swan…

“He’s helping already,” Viktor agrees, smiling down at Vicchan. “So are you. Thank you, Prince Katsuki.”

“You… can call me Yuuri,” Yuuri offers timidly, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. “If you want.”

“If you trust me enough to let me hold your dog,” Viktor murmurs, his eyes impossibly gentle as he strokes Vicchan’s ears, “you can go ahead and call me Vitya.”

“Vitya,” Yuuri repeats, and Viktor nods.

It feels like a breath of fresh air.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> viktor: ok, so to start all i have to do is pretend to be friendly with him so he lets me hang out with him so i can determine his schedule. i just can't actually get close.  
> yuuri: here is a dog to make you smile!  
> viktor, gay and wheezing: **_failed step one,_**


	3. if i should listen to my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viktor discovers that he's in far over his head. Drowning has never seemed so inevitable before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for some action/violence (it's not really violence it's closer to just a near-death experience?) and some depression, panic, and suicidal ideation!
> 
> big thanks to [fae](http://wizardmafianinjapirate.tumblr.com/) and [stevie](http://we-call-everything-katsudon.tumblr.com/) for helping me iron out some scenes and plot this chapter! ♥

The sun shines down, high in the sky, as Viktor follows Yuuri through the enormous garden maze. They’re having a picnic—Yuuri’s friend from the kitchens, Yuuko, suggested it, and Yuuri seemed to think it would be fun, so Viktor just shrugged and agreed. Both of their dogs are coming, trotting along happily next to them; Makkachin keeps nosing curiously at the picnic basket, and Viktor gives her another warning look.

“Here,” Yuuri says, tugging at his sleeve and leading him deeper into the maze. “I promise it’s not much further.”

Ever since the night in the kitchens, Yuuri has been acting… different. He’s been smiling at Viktor more often, talking to him like they’re _friends_ (and he let him hold his dog! That must mean they’re friends, right?) and including him in activities with Lord Phichit and Miss Yuuko. Viktor doesn’t know what to make of it, not entirely, but he has to admit that Yuuri is… he’s… he’s charming. And sweet. And he has a beautiful smile, and… the way he laughs kind of reminds him of Sunflower.

God, Viktor misses Sunflower. He needs to ask about him, sometime, when he works up the courage to find out whether Sunflower would hate him for being not just Ruthenian, but a Nikiforov.

“I wonder what Yuuko packed for us,” Yuuri muses, daintily hopping from stepping-stone to stepping-stone across a small stream.

Viktor smiles slightly as he follows. “I have no idea, but I’m sure it’ll be good.” It’s true: everything he’s had to eat since coming here has been amazing. He misses home food, misses it a lot, but Hinomotan cuisine is absolutely wonderful.

Makkachin chases him excitedly, her tail wagging as she splashes her way across, while Vicchan emulates his owner and jumps from one stone to the next. It’s one of the cutest things Viktor has ever seen.

Makkachin climbs out of the stream and enthusiastically shakes herself off, spraying both of them with water; Yuuri yelps and shields the picnic basket with his body, while Viktor claps a hand to his forehead and cries, “Makkachin, _no!”_

Makkachin barks and wags her tail again, dropping into a play bow before running a few meters ahead of them and waiting. She’s excited today, and it makes Viktor smile.

Yuuri looks up at Viktor nervously. “She won’t run off and get lost, will she?”

“No, no,” Viktor assures, firing a stern look at Makkachin as if to think very loudly into her head, _don’t run off and get lost._ “She’ll stay close.”

“Okay.” Relieved, Yuuri resumes walking. “It’s just up ahead.”

Viktor hums. “What, exactly, is ‘it’?”

“Oh—um, it’s just a nice place to sit?” Yuuri chews at his lip for a moment. “You’ll see. It’s really pretty. I like to come here whenever I just need some time alone, or I want to think, or something. Mari and I used to hide in the maze whenever we didn’t want to take our lessons.”

Viktor laughs. “That sounds like something I’d do. I used to hide in—Petersburg Palace has a lot of secret passageways and hidden rooms, and nobody really knows all of them, but I used to explore in there a lot and hide from my tutor…”

His smile fades, drops from his face, and melts away into nothingness as he remembers Yakov. Remembers his gruff attitude and how deeply he’d cared underneath. Remembers…

“Um, Vitya?”

He snaps back to the present. “Yes?”

Yuuri, not making eye contact, very shyly takes his hand and squeezes it. “I… it’s… I’m sorry for your loss.”

Viktor blows out a breath and tries a smile again, a thin and pathetic, watery one. Yuuri’s hands are cool and soft; he wonders if he ought to have let go yet. “Thanks.”

If he was supposed to let go of his hand, Yuuri makes no indication; he just keeps holding Viktor’s and leads him around two more turns, left and then right, and then the maze opens up into a small “room”, and its beauty steals Viktor’s breath away.

The centerpiece is a thick, gnarled cherry tree, laden with new leaves and buds of springtime growth. It stands proudly above a spring that bubbles up around its roots, the water clear as crystal, and a small stream flows away from it, disappearing under the hedges. It must be the same stream they just crossed, Viktor realizes.

A carven stone bench sits under the tree, slightly mossy and dark from age, and Yuuri toes out of his shoes before he pads across the grass in his bare feet, clambers over the roots, and settles onto the bench with the basket. Viktor follows him, though he keeps his shoes on, and notices a simple swing, made of rope and a slat of wood, tied from a branch on the other side of the tree. He can just imagine Yuuri coming here with his sister as a child, laughing and playing in the water.

“Here,” Yuuri says, opening the basket and handing him a cup. “There’s tea—oh, she packed us two types! We have both rose black and pomegranate green! Oh, that’s wonderful. And um—okay, there’s red bean buns, too, that’s thoughtful—oh, here are the bento boxes.”

“You get really excited about tea, don’t you,” Viktor observes, leaning over him to look into the basket. Makkachin’s nose prods him in the back, and absently, he reaches behind the bench to scrunch his fingers through her fur to keep her occupied.

Yuuri laughs sheepishly. “Um, yeah… I really like tea, what can I say. Which one do you want first? We’ve definitely got enough for a few cups.”

“I’ll take the rose,” Viktor answers, holding out his cup, and Yuuri smiles as he pours it for him.

Yuuri passes him one of the bento boxes before setting out snacks for the dogs, and they sit side-by-side and eat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. The sound of the water babbling its way from the tree to the rest of the gardens is soothing and almost hypnotic, and the touch of the breeze is a gentle caress.

It’s soothing enough that Viktor swallows hard and finally decides to ask the question that’s been burning in his mind for two weeks now.

“Yuuri,” he begins, focusing carefully on the last few bites of his rice, “can I ask you something?”

Yuuri suddenly looks a little anxiously, fidgeting with his glasses. “Um, yes, of course? Is—is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Viktor licks his lips, a little nervous. “I just meant to ask… at the masquerade ball, there was a member of your delegation I befriended, and I wanted to see him again, if I could, but obviously, ah, I don’t know who he was, so I was wondering if you could help me out?”

Yuuri has gone very still. “Um. I. I could… yes. I could do that. What were—what was he dressed as?”

Viktor gives him an odd look. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Yuuri says quickly. He’s clearly tense, but Viktor just gives him a dubious look and lets it slide. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, that’s fine and his choice. “What was his costume?”

“A sunflower,” Viktor says, looking down into the water. He knows he’s being vulnerable and showing emotion, but—but Yuuri is going to die soon anyway (guilt stabs him in the gut at the thought), and god, he misses Sunflower. Misses the way he laughed and danced and made Viktor feel like a _person_ instead of a pawn. So what if it makes his voice go soft in a way that would have Yura trying to kick his ass? “He was dressed as a sunflower, and he dances like a fairy, and he has a smile like the sunlight on a nice spring day.”

Yuuri lets out a tiny, choked noise. Viktor looks back to him, brow furrowed, and sees that he’s gone entirely pink in the face.

“Yuuri?”

“Um,” Yuuri squeaks, and then he all but tosses his empty bento box aside and scoops Vicchan up, burying his face in his fur for a moment. Vicchan wriggles slightly but accepts his fate almost immediately, while Viktor stares, befuddled.

“Do you know who I mean…?”

“Yes,” Yuuri squeaks, again, and then he peeps over the top of Vicchan’s head, his eyes wide and full of wonder. “I—that was _me.”_

Viktor gapes. “You— _you_ were Sir Sunflower?”

“You were the swan, right?” Yuuri looks at his feet, his ears bright red, and that makes Viktor feel a little better about how ridiculous he feels right now, because the rug might as well have just gotten pulled from under his feet. He blinks a few times, dazed.

“Yes, I—I was the swan,” he says dumbly, and then his heart stops in his chest, because…

Because.

He agreed to kill his sunflower.

Fuck.

Oh, god, he can’t do it—Yuuri was already being kind and generous and friendly, and he felt guilty enough, but—but it’s _Sunflower,_ too, the one person he thought he could flee to, the one person he was afraid to disappoint, and that’s _Yuuri,_ and he—he can’t kill Yuuri, he can’t—

“Vitya?” Yuuri asks timidly, hugging Vicchan to his chest. “Vitya, what’s wrong, you’re so pale, are, are you okay? Oh my god, I’m sorry, I’ve known for a few days but I didn’t—I didn’t know how to bring it up—are you okay? Please say something!”

“You ran away,” he blurts out, bringing a trembling hand to his lips. The one person he felt he could let his guard down with, who didn’t judge him for who he was, and he agreed to kill him in cold blood.

For Yakov.

He looks at Yuuri, really, _really_ looks at him, and sees wide eyes and pink cheeks and anxiety and worry and concern. True, genuine concern, for Viktor, the son of his enemy. He…

He can’t kill Yuuri.

He’s known ever since the day in the kitchens, but he didn’t want to admit it, not to himself, let alone the others. He can’t do this. He’s not a killer. He can’t help them kill Yuuri.

“I—I was scared,” Yuuri whispers, looking away. “I was scared that people would judge us, and I was scared I’d be a let-down to you if you knew who I was, and I was scared that—I don’t know. I was scared of a lot of things. I’m—I’m sorry. I wanted to find you, the next day, but I didn’t know who you were, and—I’m sorry. I… I wish I hadn’t run.”

“Me too,” Viktor says numbly. He has to tell Petrov that he’s changed his mind. He’s not going to do this. “I—shit, sorry, that sounds like I’m mad at you. I’m not. I just… this would’ve been easier if… if you’d stayed.”

“Sorry,” Yuuri whispers again.

Viktor swallows hard. He’s never felt further from home than in this moment—he doesn’t know what he wants, he doesn’t know what to do, he doesn’t know anything. He wants Yuuri to live. He wants to learn to love Yuuri, the way he fantasized about learning to love Sunflower after the ball, wants to keep his friendship, wants peace, wants Yakov back.

He’s starting to realize, though, that killing Yuuri would never have brought Yakov back.

“Why did you kiss me?” Yuuri asks, very quietly, and looks down into the spring.

Viktor hesitates. “Because… you made me feel like a person with feelings that mattered for the first time since the negotiations started, and you were beautiful, and you made me happy.”

Yuuri bites his lip. Viktor has to tell himself not to reach up and stroke his thumb against the corner of his mouth to make him stop. “And… knowing who I am now, do you… do you regret it?”

Viktor shakes his head. “No.”

He doesn’t regret it. God help him, he doesn’t regret it.

There’s a growing part of him that wants to protect Yuuri, he’s starting to notice, and maybe he should be more horrified by that realization, but somehow he isn’t. Somehow he just… accepts it, accepts that Yuuri is gentle and good and the opposite of the war that took Yakov from him. He wants to keep Yuuri safe from a second war. He…

Impulsively, he leans over and kisses Yuuri’s cheek.

Yuuri squeaks, an adorably high-pitched sound, as his hands fly up to his cheeks in surprise, and he whips around to look at Viktor with wide, wide eyes.

“You’re kind,” Viktor says. “I would never regret it.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says. His face is very pink, but he’s smiling a shy, soft smile, a little tremulous as if he can’t quite believe it. “Somehow, I thought telling you that I was the sunflower would be a lot harder.”

Viktor offers him a tiny smile in return. “I’m glad it was easy.”

“You _are_ pretty easy to talk to,” Yuuri agrees.

A moment passes in companionable, breathable silence. Yuuri reaches back into the picnic basket and pulls out the dog treats, tossing one first to Vicchan, and then one to Makkachin, who jumps to snatch it out of the air, her ears flapping majestically in the breeze. Yuuri laughs, and it’s Sunflower’s laugh, the same laugh that enchanted Viktor the night of the ball. How didn’t he realize this sooner?

Makkachin looks up inquisitively, her tail wagging. “Oh, look, Makka,” Viktor teases her, holding out his hands. “No more treats? Are there no more treats, girl?”

Makkachin, not one to be fooled, looks to Yuuri instead, tongue lolling to the side. Yuuri grins and dangles one as if he’s preparing to throw it, gets up, and holds it over her head. “Come on, Makka! Can you jump? Jump!”

Makkachin rears up on her back legs, prances, and snatches the treat. Yuuri laughs and ruffles her ears, tossing a second one to Vicchan, and then Makkachin gets this look in her eyes—

“Oh no,” Viktor groans.

—and she tackles Yuuri backwards, trying to dive directly into the bag of treats in his hand.

_Splash!_

The treats fall to the ground where Yuuri was a second ago. Makkachin delightedly sticks her nose in, and Viktor jumps to his feet to run to the side of the spring, where Yuuri, soaked to the skin, is spluttering.

“I thought you said she was well-behaved!” he gasps, wide-eyed, as he takes his glasses off and tries to shake the water from them. His hair is plastered against his forehead, and when he lifts his arms, the sleeves of his thick robes are soaked through. Viktor sheepishly offers a hand.

“I, ah, may have exaggerated?”

“I can _tell,_ ” Yuuri mutters. For a moment, Viktor is terrified that he’s actually upset, but then his lips twitch and he starts to grin, letting Viktor help him to his feet and then wading out of the spring. He starts to wring water from his clothes, but gives up after a moment; his outer robes are heavy enough before a thorough soaking.

Instead, he groans and shrugs out of them entirely, and they fall to the ground with a wet-sounding _fwump._

“Sorry,” Viktor says, rubbing the back of his head. He doesn’t know if he has the fine control over his magic that he’d need to draw all of the water out without damaging the delicate embroidery, but he can offer, at least. “Um. I can _try_ to dry them out?”

“No, no, that’s okay,” Yuuri sighs. “I’ll just take them to my room and hang them up…”

“I owe you,” he argues halfheartedly. “My dog did this to you.”

Yuuri laughs ruefully, looking at Makkachin, who has dragged the treats over to share with Vicchan. There were only a few left, anyway, so it’s alright, Viktor supposes, and turns his attention back to Yuuri. “It’s okay,” Yuuri repeats, but when the wind picks up, he wraps his arms around himself, shivering slightly in his sheer, silky undershirt (and that’s stuck to his skin with water, too, and it doesn’t leave much to the imagination).

Viktor shrugs out of his jacket and in one fluid motion, settles it snugly about Yuuri’s shoulders.

“There,” he says, as Yuuri jerks his head up to look up at him, wide-eyed. There’s something about the wonder in his eyes that reminds him of the night they met, and he wants to melt on the spot—Yuuri, wearing his jacket and smiling that shy hesitant smile, is utterly precious. “To keep you warm. You know, until you can get something dry.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri says shyly, his cheeks pink. He puts his arms through the sleeves, buttoning it back up, and Viktor goes a little weak in the knees because it’s just barely too big for him, and _that’s adorable._ “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he answers faintly.

He _has_ to call this off, he realizes. He has to. He’ll never be able to live with himself, otherwise. Yuuri has to live.

* * *

Yuuri has to live, because he is in large part the only reason Viktor can stand being in Hinomoto at all.

He realizes this in court, only a few days after their picnic in the maze, when he’s sitting demure and silent at Yuuri’s left: the ward of the Royal Family. Allowed (and expected) to be present, but not to speak. He’s not a Hinomotan noble, and Ruthenia has no representative here; he’s essentially just a bit of decoration for the Katsukis. _Look,_ he says, loud and clear and silent. _I lost the war to you. I belong to you now._

He hates it, but he’s careful to keep his face schooled into something neutral and blank the whole time. It wouldn’t do for him to look upset. He lost the war, after all. He’s nothing but a little bird locked in its gilded cage, on display for the world to see.

After the morning session adjourns, Yuuri pulls him aside into the King and Queen’s receiving room (empty, right now, save for the two of them).

“Are you okay?” he asks, and in his eyes there’s genuine concern.

Viktor smiles vaguely—it’s his court smile, the aloof, cold, unbothered one—and tilts his head. He hurts and he hates his prison. “Of course. Do I seem otherwise?”

Yuuri bites his lip hard, hard enough that Viktor almost wants to lean forward and ghost his fingers over it and murmur, _Don’t do that,_ except Yuuri hasn’t kissed him or been intimate at all even though he knows Viktor kissed him, and he doesn’t want to chase away the only person here who seems to care.

“I know what your real smile looks like, Vitya,” Yuuri finally says, his voice low, “and it’s not this.”

Viktor is dumbstruck for just a moment.

“You actually notice the difference?”

Yuuri nods. He reaches forward and takes Viktor’s hands, rubs his thumbs over his knuckles, and squeezes; Viktor suddenly wants to throw himself into his arms and weep bitterly because he _misses_ being held and being comforted and feeling loved. Nobody touches him here, except Yuuri. Nobody holds him.

“Your real smile is happy,” Yuuri says. “This one is sad. Is it because of court?”

Viktor shrugs, presses his lips together, and feels his sorrow turn icy and bitter. “I hate the way they look at me. I get it. Ruthenia lost the war and now I’m a pretty little ornament to hang over everyone’s heads. But I wish they wouldn’t all _look_ at me like that.”

Yuuri frowns. “Who—”

There’s a knock. Yuuri jerks away, and before he even calls _enter,_ the door opens and someone’s head pops around the doorway. It’s one of the nobles who stared at Viktor in court, one of the ones with the beady eyes who looked at him like he was a helpless animal and they were figuring out how best to spear him. “Prince Yuuri! There you are!”

“Lady Arai,” Yuuri says, the picture of politeness. He inclines his head ever so slightly, but Viktor contrasts him with the way he laughed and moved as Sunflower and thinks, _He’s not comfortable._ “If you please, I am in the middle of something. Please come back later.”

Lady Arai looks displeased. “Prince Yuuri,” she says, pinching her lips together, “it will only take a moment. The Ruthenian can wait.”

Yuuri draws himself up a little taller, his mouth pressing into a thin, firm line. “ _The Ruthenian_ has a name, and you should be careful before you disrespect a guest of my family, Misaki.”

Lady Arai frowns, entering the room and closing the door behind herself. “Oh, please. My prince, don’t tell me you’re becoming enamored of the enemy.”

“We are no longer enemies,” Yuuri says stiffly. “I requested that you leave and return later, and I also requested that you treat Prince Nikiforov with the respect accorded to any other member of my family. Would you care to tell me why you are ignoring _both_ requests your prince has made of you?”

“I—don’t be like that, Prince Yuuri!” Lady Arai laughs, though it comes out stilted; it seems she must have expected Yuuri to be much more accepting of her intrusion. Some part of Viktor’s heart warms at his defense. “I’m _sorry._ I should not have demeaned your pet Ruthenian. If he’s that good a lay—”

“Lady Arai,” Yuuri says coldly, his eyes flashing as he folds his arms across his chest. “That is _enough._ I have asked you to be polite _._ If you came here to personally invite me to your father’s ball this weekend, I must decline; be sure you tell him that I originally had intentions of attending, but that your conduct has thoroughly changed my mind. Now, apologize to Prince Nikiforov.”

Lady Arai blanches. “Your Highness,” she says, and at least now she has some meek humility in her voice instead of some lofty air, “you cannot possibly expect me to defer to _him—”_

Yuuri’s voice brooks no argument. “I said, _apologize.”_

Lady Arai takes a deep breath, bowing her head, and then gives Viktor a look of pure loathing. “My apologies, Your Highness,” she grinds out, stilted and fake. “I will be more respectful in the future.”

“Apology accepted,” Viktor says as smoothly as he can. If he was in Ruthenia, he would be cold and ruthlessly imperial, delivering cutting remarks on his own, but he’s _not,_ and he feels somewhere between helpless that he can’t defend himself, and safe because Yuuri is doing it for him. It feels kind of _nice_ to let someone else take care of him.

“Thank you, Misaki.” Yuuri nods once. “Now, leave my presence.”

Lady Arai, head down and face murderous, nods, curtseys, and leaves quietly, and the door closes behind her with a heavy _thunk._

Yuuri sighs, deflating, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry about that, Vitya,” he murmurs, coming forward and taking Viktor’s hands again, like he did before she came. “She… we were friends, when we were younger, but we grew apart the more I realized that her family was just pressuring her to befriend me to get close to the crown. I don’t think she’s figured out that I can see right through her yet. I’m sorry she was like that to you. I wish she would just… be genuine. She was really nice, before her parents got to her. I feel kind of bad for her… but not enough to let that kind of behavior slide. I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” Viktor says quietly. “Thank you for defending me.”

Yuuri looks startled. “Of course! I mean it when I say that they better treat you with respect. If anyone gives you a hard time, I’ll give them one right back. Okay?”

Viktor kind of really wants to kiss him right now. “You don’t have to do that—really, it’s alright. I don’t _like_ it, but I can’t say it’s unexpected.”

“I know I don’t have to,” Yuuri says, squeezing his hands (his hands are so soft!). “I said I’m gonna. Okay?”

This time, Viktor huffs out a tiny laugh, his heart feeling genuinely warmed. “Okay.”

* * *

He walks Yuuri back to his rooms after court, tempted to kiss his cheek again but too disturbed by all the thoughts roiling in the pit of his stomach to do it. When they arrive, Yuuri remembers that he still has his jacket from the day in the gardens and insists on giving it back, so Viktor carries it back to his rooms and hangs it up. He stares at it, wondering if Yuuri would just take it and wear it forever if he gave it to him, wondering if what he feels for Yuuri can be called _love_ yet, wondering if he could somehow just vanish so he wouldn’t have to do … this.

He doesn’t vanish, however, so with a heavy heart, he pulls out his computer and sits down at his desk. There’s a call he must make.

“Your Highness!”

Lord Petrov greets him with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks stressed, Viktor thinks, and notices with a pang the familiar Ruthenian architecture behind the man. God, he wants to go home. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Petrov answers. “How are things going? I have to say, I’m surprised you called us this early. Do you already have all the information we need?”

Viktor twists his fingers in his sleeve, under his desk where the camera can’t see. “Ah… about that.”

Petrov frowns ever so slightly. “Oh? Is something wrong, Your Highness? Forgive me if I overstep my place, but you seem out of sorts.”

He looks concerned, kindly and genuine, but Viktor knows he can’t trust a face just because it looks friendly. He’s no idiot; he knows that Petrov conspires against his mother. That Petrov isn’t above just using him. Hell, Petrov _is_ using him. If it was someone else sent off to Hinomoto, Petrov would be trying to get them to kill Yuuri, not Viktor.

“I’m reconsidering our arrangement,” Viktor finally says, keeping his countenance firm. He might be younger, and lost, and far from home, but he _is_ still Ruthenia’s Ice Prince, and he outranks Petrov. He will not be intimidated or cowed just because he is at a disadvantage. “I don’t think I want to go through with it anymore.”

Petrov’s bushy eyebrows shoot up, then furrow into a deep frown. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness?”

“I said,” Viktor repeats, “that I won’t be part of the arrangement we discussed before I left Elvetia. I’ve made up my mind, and my decision is final and irrevocable.” His heart is pounding, his palms sweaty under the desk, and he breathes out, letting frost flow through his veins to cool them down. He is the Ice Prince. He can handle himself. He doesn’t need to be afraid. Why is he afraid?

“I don’t understand,” Petrov says, shaking his head. “Prince Viktor—”

“I don’t recall giving you permission to use my given name,” Viktor interrupts, keeping his voice cold and imperious. “You may use my style or my family name. You may use _only_ those.”

Something hard flickers in Petrov’s eyes. “Very well. Your Highness. My apologies. But I still must say, I don’t understand why you’re backing out of our agreement. Have the Hinomotans been filling your head with propaganda?”

“No,” Viktor says, drawing himself up, as haughty as can be. “I simply have reconsidered. I am not interested in reigniting the war. Good day, my lord.”

He moves to end the call, fuming internally, but Petrov stops him with a cry of, “Wait!”

And there’s his fatal mistake:

He waits.

“Yes?”

Petrov takes a deep breath. “If you’re certain that Duke Feltsman’s death should have been in vain all along,” he begins, and Viktor is consumed by roaring, blazing, incandescent _fury._ How dare he, how _dare he, how DARE he—_

“Do not speak his name,” he hisses, clenching his fists so tight that his nails dig into his palms and hurt hurt hurt. “Do not presume to know me or my grief, _my lord._ Your disrespect gets you nowhere.”

“Viktor,” Petrov says flatly, and the lack of any title along with the egregious use of his given name is so utterly disrespectful that if they were in the same room, Viktor would freeze him on the spot. “You might be the Queen’s son, but you’re just a royal brat. You want my respect? Earn it. Do some actual good for Ruthenia, instead of having all that damn magic and not even going to the front lines. You act so high and mighty, but when push comes to shove, you don’t even want to do _anything_ about the fact that we were sabotaged into losing a fucking war?”

“I could have you arrested for speaking to me this way,” Viktor informs him, so angry that his voice is steely calm. “I might do that. I could have you arrested for more than just disrespect.”

“Just try it,” Petrov says, and _laughs._ “Do you really think we’d trust Vasilisa’s brat as far as we could throw him? You’re being watched. And so is your mother. And your _heir.”_

At the mention of Yuri, Viktor’s blood runs cold. _Leave him out of this,_ he wants to say, but that would just confirm that Petrov has gotten to him, and he can’t can’t can’t.

“I’ve tried being kind to you,” Petrov continues. “And I’ve tried doing this the easy way. But you just like making everything more difficult than it has to be! So, that’s fine. We can do this the hard way.”

How did Viktor ever think he even _looked_ kindly? This man is awful, and if only Viktor was back in Ruthenia, he would _ruin_ him. He’d freeze him solid, throw him in the dungeons, and keep him from ever speaking Yura’s name ever again. How dare he. How dare he fucking do this!

“Now listen up. You’re _going_ to get us the information we need, and you’re going to do it fast.” Petrov looks at him with no sympathy at all in his eyes. Viktor can barely keep himself from trembling with rage. “If you don’t, we have backup plans. If all of us don’t call it off, Prince Plisetsky will have an _accident,_ sometime soon. It would be incredibly unfortunate, especially because he’s going on that riding trip with Prince Altin soon, don’t you think? If his gear were to be damaged, and he were to suffer a tragic accident in the woods?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Viktor says, very quietly, low and dangerous. “I’m going to end you and everything you stand for.”

“That’s the attitude I want to see,” Petrov says, laughing mockingly. “Just turn it toward Prince Katsuki now. You can handle that, right? And Viktor—don’t even think of telling your mother, or else there _will_ be a coup d’état, and you’ll lose both her _and_ your precious heir.”

If looks could kill, Petrov would have been frozen to death many times over by now. Viktor digs his nail into his thumb as hard as he can and glares at the screen. “That’s clearly a bluff.”

Petrov raises an eyebrow. “Is it? I suppose you could take that gamble, if you want to, but you’re the one with the most to lose, aren’t you?”

Viktor can’t even find words. He’s furious and upset and helpless and _trapped,_ and he wants to scream.

“Think about it, why don’t you,” Petrov suggests. “Keep in touch, Viktor.”

He hangs up, and the screen winks out. Viktor is left staring at his reflection, and he—he can’t stand himself suddenly, can’t stand that he fucking agreed to this, can’t _stand_ that this is all his fault for letting himself get manipulated into it in the first place. Fuck. Fuck!

He’s never considered himself someone who cries easily, but somehow, the helplessness and the rage boil over into pure frustration that bubbles up from his chest to his throat, and then suddenly he’s sobbing, so angry he can’t do anything but dig his nails into his hands and grit his teeth and cry. He hates this. He hates this, he hates this, he hates it! How dare Petrov fucking threaten Yura! How dare he threaten Mama! Why did Viktor let himself get trapped like this!

Makkachin scratches at his door, whining, as he hiccups and chokes on another furious sob, and he kicks off his shoes with more force than is strictly necessary before he storms to the door, throws it open, and lets her in. She jumps up, anxious, and licks at his hands when he catches her; he shuts the door (he can’t slam it, because her ears are sensitive) and stomps back towards his bed.

“I hate this!” he cries, throwing himself down. “I hate all of it! I hate him! I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!”

He grabs a pillow and smushes his face into it and _screams._ Screams until his throat is raw and his voice is hoarse, and then he buries his face in Makkachin’s fluff and sobs and sobs and sobs until he eventually, finally, falls asleep.

* * *

 

Over the next two weeks, Viktor grows more and more certain that he’s going to explode. He’s restless and agitated and afraid, and he can tell that it’s apparent because Yuuri keeps looking at him with concern but not saying anything, which doesn’t _help_ and just frustrates him more. He’s utterly furious with himself. If he had just refused to hear Petrov out before leaving Elvetia—if he’d just _told Mama,_ that same day! If he’d just been responsible and not an idiot blinded by grief—

God, what would Yakov say if he could see him now.

(“Idiot boy,” probably, and “Haven’t I always told you to think before you act?!”, but he’d also make it better and make this stop hurting!)

The fear that Petrov wasn’t bluffing lingers. What if he really _does_ have some kind of mechanism in place to ensure that if Viktor tells his mother, the Nikiforovs will lose the throne? Viktor himself would be a threat if they did stage a coup, so they’d want him assassinated too. If he’s not careful, and if Petrov was telling the truth, it could mean that he’s facing a potential end to the Nikiforov dynasty.

So that’s what his choices have come down to: reignite a war, or be the last Nikiforov, until he’s killed, too.

He buries his face in his hands and tries to stop trembling. Yuuri’s going to be here any moment, and he has to be calm and presentable. He can’t—Yuuri _can’t_ know about any of this. At this point, being around his sunflower is the only thing keeping Viktor from descending into complete despair—or, well, him and Makkachin—and he’s growing more and more certain of one thing:

He can’t, absolutely and utterly cannot, help them kill Yuuri. He’d rather cut off his own arm. He can’t help them kill Yuuri, not when Yuuri is the person who’s been kindest to him since he’s arrived in Hasetsu. Not when Yuuri is his sunflower. Not when… not when…

He can’t do it.

“Makkachin,” he whispers, hugging the poodle to his chest. “Makkachin, what should I _do?_ No matter what, I fuck up! I ruin something or I ruin something else. Oh, Makkachin, I can’t do _anything!”_

What if he just… doesn’t do anything? What if he doesn’t tell his mother, _and_ he doesn’t send information about Yuuri? Could he just lie low and live his life? Could he, perhaps, be safe that way?

Viktor dismisses the thought immediately. No, of course he couldn’t. That’s wishful thinking and nothing else. They’d just tell him that if he doesn’t get them information by a certain date, they’d hurt or kill Yura. He’d be just as trapped as he is now; the only difference would be that he’d have procrastinated on figuring out what to do.

Not that he has any idea what to do right now, either. The only way out he can think of is if he… if he just removes himself from the equation entirely. He _could_ do that, and it wouldn’t be that hard, but he—he doesn’t _want_ to. He’s scared. He doesn’t want to take his own life. He doesn’t want to die. Is that selfish of him?

Makkachin wriggles in his arms, huffing slightly, and he lets her go. She clambers across his lap, then plops down and lays her head on his thigh, pawing at his knee when he doesn’t immediately start petting her, and he manages a shaky smile as he strokes his hand through her fur and scratches behind her ears.

“You’re a very good girl, you know?” he murmurs. “Very good girl. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Makkachin grunts and flicks her ear.

_Rap-rap-rap!_

A knock sounds on his door, and he clears his throat to make sure he doesn’t sound like he’s close to tears before he calls, “It’s unlocked, come in!”

The door slides open, and Yuuri peeps around its edge. “Hi,” he says, rosy-cheeked from the wind. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Viktor gives Makkachin a final belly rub and a farewell pat, and tries his hardest to ignore her indignance when he gets up to leave. He hates leaving her, but sometimes it has to be done—at least she’s used to it now. “See you, Makka! I’ll be back soon, okay? Okay, Makkachin? Okay? Good girl. Good girl! Okay. Bye-bye!”

Yuuri offers his arm as they walk, and Viktor takes it, tucking his hand into the crook of Yuuri’s elbow and letting him guide him. If he were a stronger man, perhaps he would take less refuge in how safe Yuuri makes him feel, in how easy it feels to just be himself around him, but he is weak and pathetic and sad, and Yuuri makes him feel better.

_I can’t lose you,_ he thinks, looking at his sunflower’s profile as they walk. _I can’t possibly lose you._

“So where are you taking me?” His voice is deliberately lighter than he feels. He wonders if Yuuri can tell the difference.

“Oh—well, I know court has been getting you down,” Yuuri answers, looking up at him through those long, dark eyelashes, “and I’m sorry about that, so I thought we could get out for a while! Oldtown is really pretty, and I thought maybe you’d like to see the Watanabe Castle?”

“Oh!” Viktor squeezes his arm, actual enthusiasm stirring in him for the first time in ages. He’s read about the history of Hinomoto (of course he has, what kind of crown prince would he be if he hadn’t?) and he knows about the Watanabe Dynasty, which ended hundreds of years ago when the Katsukis came to power, but seeing the actual ancient building where that history _happened—_ that’s exciting. That’s really exciting! “That sounds wonderful! I don’t know if I ever told you, but history is one of my favorite subjects, so—thank you, Yuuri, I really appreciate this.”

Yuuri’s cheeks go a little pink, but his smile is bright. “Of course! I’m glad. I was hoping I could cheer you up somehow.”

“You did. You are,” Viktor assures him, and then because he’s impulsive and they’re passing under an arch and nobody is around to see, he leans in and presses a quick kiss into Yuuri’s hair. “Thank you.”

Yuuri’s cheeks are even pinker, and his smile brighter. “Anytime, Vitya.”

Yuuri leads him to a car that he’s called for, and they’re driven down to Hasetsu’s Oldtown, the area that used to be the center of commerce and administration before the Katsuki’s palace was built. Now, as Yuuri explains, leading him through the winding, narrow streets, a lot of these buildings have been converted into shops, while the Watanabe Castle is used partly as a convention center and partly as a museum.

“There’s an ongoing restoration project,” Yuuri mentions, leading him past the areas accessible to the public and further into the inner sanctum. Viktor marvels at the architecture, traces his fingers over the bricks in a wall, and wonders about the people who used to live here, centuries ago. “Parts of the castle are in pretty bad shape. About two years ago, my parents started the restoration process, and there’s been work going on to get the entire thing back in good condition so it can all be accessible to the public!”

“That’s incredible,” Viktor murmurs. “Petersburg doesn’t have anything like this nearby. I guess—well, before my however-many-greats grandfather unified the provinces, there wasn’t really a Ruthenia to speak of. There’s provincial castles, but Petersburg Palace is… it’s very, very old. It used to be a provincial castle, but it expanded. A lot.”

“That’s really cool,” Yuuri murmurs, glancing out of one of the narrow windows. “There must be so much history in a building like that.”

“Yeah,” Viktor says, perking up. “There’s a lot of secret passages, like I said, right? Some of them were intentionally built that way. Some were for servants to come and go unseen, though my great-grandmother ended that policy right at the start of her reign. But a lot of them are actually old parts of the palace that various old rulers decided they wanted blocked off for whatever reason, so there’s just these hidden, sealed-off ballrooms that you have to go through a maze of back corridors to get to. And then you step in the dust and wonder, who used to dance here? What was it like when this place was lit up and bright, and… oh, I’m rambling.”

He stops, face flushing, but when he looks over, Yuuri is watching him, eyes wide with wonder. “No, no,” he says, waving his hands. “That’s fascinating—I wish I could see that! You can—you can keep talking about it, if you want to I mean? I just—I like hearing what you think.”

“Oh,” Viktor says, and now he’s sure his face is on fire. He ducks his head and tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “Thank you. Um.”

They wander through the palace, looking at all the different rooms. The restored ones have replicas of the furniture that was used in the days of the Watanabe kings, and Viktor marvels over them, too; the entire place is just breathtaking. As they meander, the rooms get more and more decrepit, until finally Yuuri wavers.

“I think this is probably where we should stop, to be safe,” he says, peering at a balcony nearby. It’s surrounded by scaffolding, and that alone is enough to make Viktor agree.

“Can we see the grounds, too, before we go?”

Yuuri brightens immediately, taking his hand and eagerly leading him back the way they came. “Yes, absolutely! The wells still have water, deep down. When I was little and we came here, I wanted to go down in them and explore—I thought there were caves, underwater, connecting them all, and it seemed so interesting.” He laughs, and Viktor squeezes his hand, hopelessly charmed.

They walk back outside hand-in-hand; there’s hardly anyone present, and Viktor is grateful. The gardens are pretty, though he has a suspicion that they’ll be prettier in a month or so when all the flowers are blooming, and the fountains are lovely. It’s nice, being in a place like this with Yuuri, without any expectations or animosity. They aren’t two princes; they’re just Viktor and Yuuri, taking a stroll.

Everything changes when they head back towards the front of the castle.

They’re still walking, arm-in-arm, and the sun is warm on their faces. It’s nice. The breeze is gentle, caressing their hair, and Yuuri’s smile is contagious. Viktor starts to tell him about Petersburg Palace and its gardens.

Then, above them where the workers are restoring the roofs, there’s a dismayed shout—Viktor can’t distinguish words, but there’s a rumble and a _crack_ and he whips his head up, eyes widening. There’s a chunk of carven wood and stone from one of the sloping rooftops sliding down, teetering, teetering, teetering, and starting to fall, falling toward—

It’s a scream torn from his throat. _“Yuuri!”_

He doesn’t think. He just moves. Magic surges through him with a strength born of desperation, and he seizes Yuuri and yanks him close, flinging his other arm up and out as a huge sheet of ice follows, and—

_CRUNCH!_

—the sculpture crashes into the ice but doesn’t break through it, sliding harmlessly down its slope into the grass.

Viktor slumps against the wall, breathing hard, as a wave of relief breaks and rolls through him. His arm is still clamped tight about Yuuri’s waist, pressing him flush against his chest, and he closes his eyes for just a second before he looks down at Yuuri.

He’s trembling. One of his hands is loosely fisted in the fabric of Viktor’s sweater, the other pinned to his side by Viktor’s arm. His face is ashen.

“Yuuri,” Viktor murmurs, wrapping his other arm around him. “Yuuri. Look at me. Yuuri, hey—hey. Yuuri. Sunflower?”

Yuuri finally looks up, eyes wide and too-bright. Viktor can’t help himself; he kisses his forehead.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“Oh my _god,”_ Yuuri whispers back, and starts to cry.

Viktor holds him, caresses his cheeks and squeezes him tight, and carefully walks him out of their icy lean-to, back into the sunlight. Already restoration workers and museum employees are running toward them, frantic and shouting, and Yuuri tenses; Viktor tightens his arm around him. “I’ll handle this. It’s okay. Shh.”

He does. He handles it, tells the workers that they’re okay, that he and Yuuri understand that accidents happen, and requests that they call the palace to get their driver to pick them up. He wonders why he’s so calm as he sits with Yuuri and gets him to sip some water, and he doesn’t let go once, not until they’re back in Hasetsu Palace and Yuuri’s parents come to collect them both, already having heard the news.

He thinks he’s handled it pretty well, all in all—accidents, even ones as harrowing as this, do happen sometimes—until his phone lights up with a notification that makes his blood run cold.

_Your Highness,_ Lord Petrov’s message reads. _You should not have done that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> viktor: haha boy i don't know what i'd do if they killed mama! it's a good thing that's not happening, right?

**Author's Note:**

> *also, I promise that the minor character death tag doesn't apply to Vasilisa this time. It's just Yakov. He's the only one. Promise.
> 
> EDIT: I JUST REALIZED I ACCIDENTALLY MARKED THIS AS COMPLETE. That's a lie! It's a full fic! I'm just blind and can't read! THERE'S MORE COMING!


End file.
